


Only Words Bleed

by bricoleur10



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria is a calm place where nothing bad happens, Also Daryl comforting Rick, Basically it’s a hurt/comfort orgy with a little bit of sex, Because the only turmoil I want them to have to deal with is the emotional kind, Daryl Whump, Daryl has trouble dealing with his issues, Discussions of past attempted non-con, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks to the prison when Rick was being a farmer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Protective!Rick, References to Past Child Abuse, Rickyl, Spoilers for Season 5 deaths, Worried!Rick, post season five, top!Daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricoleur10/pseuds/bricoleur10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexandria is the safest place they’ve been since the prison fell, and while that’s all well and good, the lack of constant danger leaves a gaping hole in their lives which can be filled only by the emotional turmoil of their not-always-so-distant pasts. Add a sick Daryl to the mix, and it’s really no wonder Rick starts thinking that <i>safe</i> isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Know it Can Get Hard Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get these boys out of my head. Granted, I'm not trying all that hard. Hope you enjoy what my ever-active muse conjured up this time.

**Only Words Bleed**

***

_Loving can hurt  
Loving can hurt sometimes  
But it's the only thing that I know.  
When it gets hard  
You know it can get hard sometimes  
It is the only thing that makes us feel alive._

***

Rick’s not sure if it’s a testament to Judith’s instinctual attachment to Daryl, a comment on everyone else’s fundamental assumption that their resident hunter will always be fine, or Daryl’s own inability to concede weakness finally getting the best of him, but it definitely says something when Rick’s fourteen month old daughter is the first one to notice that something is wrong with Daryl.

***

It’s early in the evening when Rick gets home from a gruelingly hot but mostly boring twelve hours patrolling the Alexandria city streets. Having been a beat cop in a relatively upscale residential neighborhood back before the end of the world had prepared the constable remarkably well for life in their safe zone. Too well, he thinks some days. He’s never going to complain about his kids having a safe place to grow up or his family staying together despite all the odds, but sometimes, after everything he’s gone through since he’d first woken up in that hospital room, Rick feels like he’s playing house here. Or, perhaps more accurately, playing with a house of cards; one that’s always only a breath away from collapsing. On those days he feels guilty and scared both, and usually only Daryl can talk something like sense, or at least resolve, back into him.

Today isn’t one of those days, not full out, but it’s close. So when he gets home the first thing he wants to do is see his partner. 

His son, however, is definitely not an unwelcome alternative. 

“Hey, dad,” Carl greets him when he comes in through the kitchen, looking up briefly from the book laying open on the table in front of him next to an empty bowl of cereal. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Rick responds. He sheds his weapon’s belt, leaving it on the hook next to the door, and then strips out of his boots with a relieved sigh. Mellow lifestyle or not, he’s still been on his feet half a day. 

Reflexively, Rick glances at Carl’s right hip when he’s bent down, and, sure enough, his son’s got a knife sheathed and fixed to his belt. They’ve been in Alexandria going on six months now, and no matter how safe it’s proven to be, his son still refuses to be without a weapon at all times – two weapons, if he’s responsible for Judith. Rick hasn’t wanted to dwell on it just yet, figuring his son’s due a little leftover vigilance given the last few years of his life, and that being overly cautious regarding such things is never a bad idea in this world, anyway. But he also knows that there’s going to come a time, and pretty soon if his parenting instincts are anything to go by, where he’ll have to sit his boy down and have a talk about the difference between preparedness and trauma. 

They’ve never discussed that night. That night with Joe and his men. The night Daryl had found them after the prison had fallen. The night his best friend in the whole fucking world, the man he fucking loves and loved and will love, forever and back again, had tried to sacrifice himself to save Rick, Michonne, and Carl. The night that Rick had…well, they all remember what Rick had done, and why. But they’ve never talked about it, and, according to Michonne, Carl’s never talked about it with anyone else, either. Rick knows he’ll have to in order to get passed what had happened, and in order to ever feel even remotely safe ever again. 

For right now, however, Carl looks content enough reading at the kitchen table – and there it is again, that feeling like they’re playing at something they aren’t allowed to have and are bound to get in trouble for it – that Rick decides that today definitely isn’t the day for a conversation like that. 

“Hey, Carl,” Rick hangs his uniform shirt up on the hook next to the one for his belt, leaving him in just a white undershirt, damp from the day’s heat. “Any idea where-”

“In the living room with Judith.” His son cuts him off before he can finish the thought. 

“It’s rude to interrupt people, y’know,” he scolds lightly. 

Carl rolls his eyes. “My bad,” he says dryly, shifting his gaze back to his father and fixing him with the driest, most sarcastic look Rick’s ever seen on anyone outside of a Dixon. “What were you gonna ask me?” 

“You think you know everything, huh?” He teases his son, mostly to distract himself from the sudden aching want tugging at his gut from seeing just how much Carl’s absorbed from Daryl over the years. It’s like recognizing that reflection of his partner in his son makes Rick want to claim Daryl as his own all over again. 

“I know what you look like when Daryl’s the only person in the world you wanna talk to.” Carl quips back, oddly insightful despite the blasé tone. 

“I-” he blinks rapidly a few times. Oh hell, where the fuck is Michonne when you need her? “I don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carl waves his hand nonchalantly. “You love me, if I ever need you, we’re a different kind of family, and all’a that other stuff. I’ve heard it, dad. I love you, too.”

Rick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Okay, so maybe he’s been making a lot of speeches lately. Daryl had warned him a few weeks ago that he’s beginning to sound a little preachy. Guess he hadn’t been wrong. 

He concedes the conversation to his son with a resolved, “So, Daryl’s in the living room?” and doesn’t so much as glare when Carl laughs at his retreat.

***

Daryl is sprawled out on the couch with Judith sitting on his stomach. It almost looks like they’d fallen asleep together like that, only his daughter is now wide awake and happily chewing on a teething ring, silent and mostly unmoving. Daryl’s arm is curled protectively around her, even in sleep, and while Rick has no doubt that if she were to start crying or trying to move away the archer would be awake in a heartbeat, he looks stone cold passed out all the same.

In retrospect, it should have been his first clue right there that something wasn’t quite right. Daryl’s apt to fall asleep just about anywhere, but always in a light doze – an adapted kind of half-sleep that allows him to rest even when he doesn’t feel safe. Rick’s not allowed to ask, and he’s not sure he would even need to about this, but he’s pretty sure that that functionality had been born in Daryl’s youth, years before the world had gone to shit. 

This, however, is not his typical light catnap. This is Daryl zonked out in a way that Rick’s only ever seen him in their bed. 

Still, for whatever reason, he doesn’t think to consider it odd. In fact, walking into a moment this domestic calms his earlier, if not somewhat irrational, fears about Alexandria being too good to be true. Nothing that lets Daryl fall asleep with a baby on his chest in the middle of the day is a bad thing, and even if all of this does wind up dissolving out from under them – just like every other good thing they’ve ever managed to build for themselves has – it will have been worth it for the time they’ve gotten to spend here. 

These are the things Daryl usually reminds him of when Rick comes home in a mood about it. Turns out he doesn’t even have to be awake to manage it anymore. 

Smiling fondly, he crouches next to the couch and makes to lift Judith off of his lover, hoping he won’t wake Daryl in the process but secretly knowing that he will and excited to say a proper hello after a whole day apart. 

Judith, however, seems to have a different idea entirely about what’s going to happen. As soon as Rick reaches for her, her tiny baby fist, the one not holding the plastic disc to her mouth, slaps at his hand. 

Surprised that she’s even old enough to do something like that, her reaction makes Rick sit back on haunches. 

“Hey there, Jude,” he whispers, torn between a smile and a frown. “Wanna come to daddy?” 

Judy’s face crinkles like she might start crying, but then it stays that way and Rick realizes belatedly that this is what his little girl looks like when she’s _angry_. Her free hand comes down and grips at the fabric of Daryl’s t-shirt tightly, balling it up in her fist and bringing it up and down a few times without actually hitting Daryl in the process. Underneath trying to figure out what she’s attempting to tell him, in her own barely-verbal sort of way, Rick’s impressed with the extent of her coordination. 

Not sure what to do, he reaches for her again. This time she keeps her grip on Daryl’s shirt and instead uses her teething toy to smack Rick’s encroaching appendage. She’s strong enough that it actually kind of hurts, never mind the wisp of drool it leaves in its wake. “Mine.” She says firmly, and makes that face again, the one that’s almost glowering. 

In that moment, even though Rick knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s not true, he could almost believe that Daryl was Judith’s biological father. 

“Judy.” He tries again, trying to sound stern. 

“Mine.” She responds, almost like she knows it’s an argument. 

It had tickled him pink when his daughter’s first word had been _mine_. He remembers the moment well; it had happened while they’d been on the road after Terminus. All of them had been running on fumes, grieving and hungry, burnt out on the whole world. Rick had known that something had to happen, and soon, or they were going to start losing people through sheer lack of will to stay alive. They’d been holed up in an old shed, all of them sitting around one night trying to stay warm. Michonne had been cleaning her katana and Judith – safely crawling between the lot of them, everyone’s eyes on her so she could be free to explore – had wobbled right over to the deadly weapon, plopped down in front of Michonne and said, very calmly and with impressive clarity, “Mine.” 

Their attentions had all immediately gone to the child. Rick, Daryl, and Carl had been identically wide-eyed. The others had all looked some variation of amused and taken aback. After Judith had said it three more times and started grabbing for the weapon (probably chosen over anything else in the room due to its admittedly impressive gleam), Michonne had carefully put the blade back in its sheath and met the little girl’s eyes almost sternly. “Was that your first word?” 

Rick had hated having to look at Tyreese for confirmation, but the other man had answered easily and without drawing more attention to Rick’s absence from his daughter’s life than necessary. “First I’ve ever heard.” 

Glenn had been the first one to laugh. He’d been unapologetic about it when Rick and Daryl both had shot him a look. “It’s just so… _you_.” And the fact that he could have been talking to Rick or Daryl had meant pretty much everything. 

Maggie had laughed, too, after that, and then everyone had joined in. Judith hadn’t understood, of course, but she’d giggled right along with them. It hadn’t solved any of their problems, not by a long shot, but it had allowed them a few minutes to forget about them, and that had gone a long way in keeping them all sane. 

Since then Judith’s learned a handful of other words, but _mine_ remains her favorite. The funny thing is, she’ll use that one word to mean so many different things depending on the circumstance. Like when she points to food and says, “mine,” because she wants to be fed. Or when she teeters over to a person and says, “mine,” while holding her arms out because she wants to be held. Once, Aaron had been holding her and Eric had come up behind them; Judith had pointed at him and said, “mine,” in a very matter of fact tone that didn’t appear to mean anything other than “he’s pretty and I want to keep looking at him.” Aaron had responded with a chuckle and a lightly teasing, “No, he’s mine.” And then Judith had patted him on the cheek and grinned real big, almost like she was approving of his choice. 

This variation of her _mine_ , however, isn’t one that Rick has ever heard before, and he’s somewhat at a loss. “What’s yours, honey?” He asks, going for direct even if it’s unlikely to work in this particular situation. 

“Mine.” She repeats, looking frustrated at Rick’s lack of understanding. She does that up and down thing with Daryl’s shirt again and then adds the one word that he wishes his daughter didn’t have to know. “Hurt.” 

Even though he’d been looking at her this whole time, his eyes immediately rake over her tiny body. She, unsurprisingly, looks as healthy as ever. Rick’s gaze shifts to Daryl then, and all at once the oddness of his lover being passed out on the couch in the middle of the day hits him hard, and the scene shifts in perception from sweet to downright terrifying. 

“Daryl?” He asks, and he’s trying to talk to the man himself, but Judith responds with another, “mine,” that sounds an awful lot like, “well thank you for finally getting it,” 

Rick pushes himself up on his knees again and lightly brushes the younger man’s hair out of his eyes. His daughter doesn’t try to stop him from getting close this time. 

Daryl’s face looks unharmed, and he can’t see any other visible signs of injury on his bare arms, but the rest of him is covered with clothing. Fighting the panic that’s threatening to well up when Daryl doesn’t so much as twitch at his touch, Rick calls out for his son. 

Despite trying to keep his voice level, Carl appears in the doorway almost immediately, and looks as scared as Rick’s trying not to feel. “What? What’s wrong?” 

Rick doesn’t move from where he’s knelt next to the couch and the man on it – who also hadn’t responded to the rise or pitch of Rick’s voice. “Did Daryl…did he go out at all today? Do you know?” 

“No,” Carl shakes his head, looking between his dad and the man in question. “I mean no, he didn’t. He was at Aaron and Eric’s for a while this morning, I think, but he’s been here with us almost all day.” He furrows his brow then, as if just realizing something. “He’s been asleep for a while, though. Figured he was just tired.” 

Rick nods, but his eyes are already back on Daryl. He reaches for the younger man again, insistent this time. “Daryl,” he says softly. “Daryl, wake up,” he shakes the man’s shoulder a little, already hovering his own hand over Daryl’s right arm, ready to stop him if he goes for his knife, but not letting up even despite the potential threat of startling someone like Daryl Dixon out of deep sleep. “Wake up,” he says louder, shaking him harder when he doesn’t move. 

Daryl shifts some then, sniffling and tilting his head just a fraction, but he doesn’t wake up. Without thinking, Rick shoots Carl an almost desperate look, like his son might know what to do when he doesn’t have a clue. 

Carl surprises him, though. He walks right over to where they are and picks Judith up off of Daryl’s chest. The baby had still been clinging to his shirt, and Carl has to fight with her to let it go. As soon as she’s away from him, Judith starts wailing something fierce. 

A split second before Rick realizes the brilliance of his son’s plan Daryl’s blinking and pushing himself up off the couch, blearily grasping for his ever-present weapon before Rick’s hovering hand closes around his wrist. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly enough that Carl probably can’t even hear him over Judith’s cries. “It’s alright, she’s fine. Carl’s got her.” 

It takes Daryl a frighteningly long few seconds to focus on him, and when he does all Rick can read in his gaze is pain. 

“Carl, go get Madison.” The words are out of Rick’s mouth before he can even think that he might be overreacting. 

“I…” his son spends barely a second looking completely terrified. He snaps himself out of it, puts Judith down in her playpen, and all but bolts out the front door. 

Rick turns back to his lover, even as his daughter continues to make noise behind him. “Hey, we got a doctor comin’, alright?” He tries to tell Daryl, who’s still half propped up on the couch and looking at him wide eyed and confused. 

Technically Madison Claremont is a nurse – or had been, before the end of the world – but since Pete is dead now she’s the closest thing any of the have to a medical authority. She’d been one of the only members of this little community who had hated Pete nearly as much as he’d deserved to be hated, mostly because she’d worked with him before, and knew exactly what sort of man he’d been. After his death, she’d taken to studying his medical texts, bound and determined to learn everything she could to be what this place needed. Rick can only pray she’s everything Daryl needs today. 

“R’ck,” the younger man rasps, finally getting a word out, and looking like it had cost him. 

God, how had he missed this? How had they all missed that something was this wrong? 

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” he soothes, getting as close to Daryl as he can manage, touching him everywhere. It’s only then, in running his hands along the other man’s face again, that he realizes the heat radiating off of him isn’t just leftover from the sun. “Think you’ve got a fever. How long’ve you felt like this?” 

Daryl shuts his eyes for half a dozen of Rick’s heartbeats, and then opens them slowly; they’re glassy and unfocused. “I had a paintball gun.” 

Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. 

Daryl’s either hallucinating or delusional. Neither one bodes well for how far this thing, whatever it is, has progressed. 

Rick’s only felt fear like this a handful of times in his life, and none of those memories feel as cruel as this one does. 

“God, please don’t be bit. Please tell me you didn’t get bit.” He doesn’t know if Daryl can understand him, but this fever, the way he’s reacting, how out of it he’d been, it all reminds him of a progression he’s seen before. So many times before. His only saving grace is that Daryl isn’t sweating, and the fever, that fever, always makes people sweat. “Tell me,” he chokes, and doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until he’s blinking around them angrily, shaking Daryl’s shoulders almost too hard. “Tell me I’m not losing you. Fucking say something, dammit.” 

But Daryl doesn’t do anything but fall back against the couch and curl on his side, looking deceptively normal in his sleep. 

_What is this? What’s happening? Am I going crazy again?_

His thoughts are nearly as loud as Judith’s screaming, and nothing gets quiet again until Carl comes back with Madison, and by then Rick’s stopped feeling anything at all.

***

The first thing Madison asks him is, “Has he been complaining about anything?”

Rick shakes his head. She’d pushed him out of the way, taking his spot next to the couch; Carl’s hovering nearby with a still sniffling but much quieter Judith. 

“No,” Carl answers out loud for him, and Rick realizes that shaking his head isn’t going to do much good when the woman who’s trying to fix Daryl is, understandably, looking at Daryl. 

“Nothing?” She presses, running long fingers along the hunter’s neck and then pressing a stethoscope to his chest. “Stomach pains? Headache? Recent injuries?” 

Rick swallows thickly. “He never really complains.” Got beat nearly half to death one time and then spent hours walking with them, trying to get them all somewhere safe because he had felt guilty about being with those men, even though none of what had happened that night had been his fault. Hadn’t said a word about the hurts, and Rick, in his own messed up headspace, hadn’t even thought to check. 

He should have, and he’d seen the remnants later – near on a week later and more of his body had been bruised than not – but still Daryl hadn’t said a word. Never asked for a break or so much as grimaced in front of them. 

Rick’s not allowed to ask about Daryl’s dad, not allowed to mention his childhood at all, in fact, but in that moment – seeing Daryl shirtless for the first time since Joe and his men had gone at him, realizing that his lover hadn’t said a damn word about the extent of the damage – Rick had wanted nothing more than to grab him and shake him until he understood. Until he _got_ that it was okay to be hurt in front of them. In front of Rick, at the very least. That he didn’t have to suffer his agony in silence just because that’s what his daddy had taught him how to do. 

If whatever this is that’s happening right now takes Daryl from him, Rick knows that Daryl’s father will be the one at fault for it. Never mind that the man’s been dead long before the world went to shit, _he’s_ the one who’d hurt Daryl so much, and so often, that he’d learned to never show it to anyone else. 

Madison continues checking over Daryl with precise hands and practiced movements. When she gets to the point of removing clothing, Rick tells Carl to take Judith upstairs. His son doesn’t want to go, Rick can see that much, but he also understands the need for privacy and doesn’t argue. 

Daryl, for his part, has been in and out of consciousness since Madison had begun. For her safety, Rick had removed Daryl’s knife from his belt, clipping it instead to his own, letting his hand drift down to it every time Daryl makes a noise like hurt, letting it remind him of just how strong this man is. Strongest one Rick’s ever known. Strong enough to take care of his family when Rick himself hadn’t been able. Strong enough to survive in this world alone. Strong enough to love a man like Rick Grimes. 

Madison doesn’t say that she’s checking for bites, but they both know that’s exactly what she’s doing. 

Rick has to help her at one point to maneuver Daryl up so she can look at his back, and that’s when it happens – the instinctual explosion of _gotta fight back, gotta live, gotta survive_ that’s rooted too deep in Daryl to ever leave him entirely compliant in a moment like this. 

He catches Madison off guard, even though Rick had told her he might attack at some point, pushing her to the ground hard. Rick has to wrestle him down, and even in his weakened state he puts up one hell of a fight. Rick manages to dodge or block all but one of the punches, which lands hard on his shoulder. 

He grunts at the pain but doesn’t stop. He lets the fact that Daryl’s fighting at all buoy him into something like hopefulness. 

“Easy, easy, easy,” he shushes into the other man’s ear. Somehow in their wrestling they’d wound up on the floor, Rick’s back against the couch and Daryl’s back against his chest. He’s using his legs and arms both to restrain him, and something about the closeness of it, the familiarity of Rick’s body, his voice over his shoulder, it’s got Daryl calming down. “There ya go,” Rick soothes gently. “You’re alright.” He takes a few gulping breaths. “You know what’s goin’ on?” 

It takes Daryl a moment to answer, but when he does it sounds a little confused, but ultimately coherent. “Had lil’ asski’er,” he clears his throat. 

“She’s fine, Daryl, she’s with Carl upstairs.” Rick says calmly. “We’re worried about you right now, okay?” He looks over to where Madison had picked herself up off the floor, seemingly unharmed, and is watching, waiting for the moment she’s able to treat her patient again. “Daryl, something happened to you, you’re sick or…or, or something, and you need to tell us how long it’s been like this.” 

Daryl drops his chin to his chest, and for one panicked moment Rick thinks he’s passed out again; but then he hears the deliberately even breaths, like he does when he’s trying to keep his temper in check, and he bites his lip, waiting. If Daryl’s trying to focus now, it’s because he wants to help. 

“Wasn’t sick,” he says finally, tilting his head back so it’s resting on Rick’s shoulder, talking so quiet that he’s afraid Madison won’t be able to hear. “Felt fine. Ached, where the knife went in, but nuthin’ bad, like before.” He takes a few more deep breaths, and Rick’s trying to remember if he’d seen anything like a knife wound on his partner the last time they’d had sex. “Was just tired.” He’s slurring a little. “Didn’t get bit.” 

_Oh thank god. Thank every fucking god, even if they’re all dead._

“I need to know where that injury is.” Madison says, talking for the first time since the scuffle, and sounding more authoritative than he’s ever heard her. 

Rick follows her order without thought. “Daryl. Hey, sweetheart, Daryl,” he pats the other man’s chest a few times, harder than he wishes he had to but unwilling to focus on anything other than what Madison had told him was most important. Daryl’s drifting in and out of it again, but he rouses somewhat at Rick’s words and movements. 

“Huh’wha?” He demands, sounding petulant and pissed at the same time. 

“You said you got stabbed, can you tell me where?”

Daryl rolls his head a little side to side. “Not stabbed. Jus’ cut. Fucker missed.” 

Rick’s really going to have to talk to Aaron about him maybe submitting detailed reports at the end of every run he and Daryl take together. Or a checklist of injuries, at the very least. 

“Fine,” he says, and this time he doesn’t try to keep the franticness out of his voice, hoping that Daryl will respond to it the way he always does – protectively. “Fine, you got cut. Tell me where? Please?” 

“Leg,” he grunts, twisting himself around enough to face Rick, looking concerned and still half-lost in fevered delusion. “Lemme,” he shakes on of his hands until Rick lets it go, having barely been aware of still holding tight to Daryl’s wrists to keep him from attacking them again. 

He uses his free hand to tap his right leg, above the knee and slightly to the side. When he makes contact there, he cringes a little, and then immediately looks surprised. “Didn’t hurt before.” 

Madison takes over then, invading their personal space in order to gain access to Daryl’s injury. She uses a pair of scissors to cut up the fabric and as soon as she gets it exposed even Rick, with his zero medical training and ineptitude for all things science, knows exactly what had gone wrong. 

“Now, see, that’s what an infected wound looks like,” Rick says sternly, grimacing a little when he realizes he can smell it, too. “You might wanna remember for next time, so you don’t fucking almost die.” 

Daryl probably would have responded sarcastically to that, had he not already passed back out. 

***

TBC...


	2. Our Eyes are Never Closing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos, guys :) As of right now, I have a good chunk of this story already written, but it's not completely done; I usually don't start posting until I have at least a full first draft of a story written, but I thought I'd try something new. I'm hoping to stick to a 2-3 day wait time for chapters, and I'm anticipating about 5 chapters total, but I'm never totally sure which direction my muse is gonna go. In the meantime, your thoughts and encouragement are always much appreciated! 
> 
> Also, I know it's in the tags, but just in case I wanted to add an additional warning here that this chapter (and most of the following ones, probably) includes discussions of a past attempted non-con that is _not_ show-canon. So if that's not something you want to read, or something that might trigger you, I'd back out now.

***  
 _We keep this love in a photograph  
We made these memories for ourselves  
Where our eyes are never closing  
Hearts are never broken  
Time’s forever frozen still_  
***

_There had been this one time, back at the prison, when Glenn, Maggie, and Daryl had returned from a run half a day later than they were due to. Rick, who’d been wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his cell and already mentally planning the team he’d get together for the first leg of their retrieval mission the next morning, had nearly lost it when Daryl had appeared in his cell in the middle of the night…_

“Fuck,” Rick’s up off his bed in a breath. Daryl shifts from looking ethereal to corporeal the closer Rick gets to him. “Fuck, are you really here?” 

Daryl reaches for him without hesitance and pulls him into a tight embrace. 

This thing between him and Daryl is a new one, and a nameless one, so far. It’s not dating, because dating is an innocence that was lost in the rubble of this world; but it’s also something more meaningful than the pure stress relief of sex. 

What Rick does know is that trust is at the heart of this companionship they’ve been growing. He trusts Daryl more than he’s ever trusted anyone; and as much as he’d like to add an asterisk to that statement, he knows he honestly can’t. 

They haven’t had a conversation about it yet, not really, but there are some things that have become normal, routines between them. What’s breaking the mold tonight is this: Daryl finding Rick right after he gets back from being out on the other side of the prison walls. Usually Rick has to do the finding. And the touching. Rick almost always has to be the first one to touch. 

The younger man so very rarely initiates contact like he is right now that it throws Rick, utterly befuddles him until he realizes that he’s clinging desperately and whispering his fears into the dirt-streaked crevice of Daryl’s neck and shoulder. He hadn’t realized until then how utterly broken he’d been, and by only a twelve hour delay. 

He hadn’t wanted to think that Hershel had been right about him needing to take a break from being Rick Grimes: Fearless Leader, but his reaction now paints a pretty clear picture. One that Daryl sees just as plainly as his son had. 

“Think you should do some of that farming stuff with Hershel tomorrow,” Daryl says later, when Rick's shaking stops and his clinging desperation feels more like a normal hug. The younger man reads his own thoughts and fears as well as he always has. Rick hadn’t wanted to think that Hershel was right, but Daryl offering an opinion like this, Daryl touching him first…well, that says even more than his mini-meltdown had. 

“He said no weapons,” Rick responds quietly, moving his hand just enough to play with the ends of Daryl’s ever-growing hair. “Don’t know if I…Haven’t not had a weapon in years, y’know?” 

“Mmhm,” Daryl hums, and a few heartbeats later he pulls away, which causes Rick to jerk like he’d been unpleasantly woken from a dream and tighten his old on the other man. “Shh,” Daryl responds to his movements sternly. “Just gettin’ something.” 

So when Rick reluctantly lets him go, he’s relieved when Daryl doesn’t take so much as a step away from him. Instead, he bends down, fiddles with something at his ankle, and then stands back up. He’s got a small knife in his hand, one that’s already safely wrapped in an ankle holster. 

“Not exactly Plan B,” Daryl sniffs. “More like M or Q, considering, but she’ll work for ya in a pinch.” Rick blinks stupidly a few times at this weapon of Daryl’s that he’s never seen before. “Take it,” the younger man insists when he stays quiet a beat too long. 

Rick does, letting the functional strap loop around his wrist as he removes the weapon itself. What’s not apparent until you hold it is the thickness of the object, the weight of it. The handle is mother-of-pearl, and the blade is clean like it’s never been used. Rick moves it up and down in his hand a few times, letting himself get used to it. Maybe eight inches total, this is a weapon designed for close-quarter combat. 

“Where’d you get this?” Rick asks, meeting the younger man’s eyes. 

Daryl swallows and glances away. “Long time ago. ‘Fore all’a this. Ain’t never had to use it.” 

Rick can sense that there’s a story there, and this knife is nothing if not a token. “Tell me.” He doesn’t say it like a demand, because demands so rarely work with Daryl that it’s never worth the backlash of trying (except during sex, but that’s a whole other thing). It’s not quite a question, though, either. 

Daryl closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and rests their foreheads together for the briefest of moments before pulling back, blinking at him, and quirking his lip in a half smile that’s more resolved than relieved. 

“First time Merle got outta jail an’ came home, I was still young. Too young,” he lifts one shoulder, dismissing the admission even as Rick’s heart clenches. This is the second, maybe third, time he’s ever heard Daryl talk about his life pre-apocalypse. He memorizes every word. “It was summer. Ran with him and his gang all the time. No one around to stop me, y’know?”

Rick doesn’t, not at all. He stays quiet, just stares at Daryl and silently begs him to keep talking. 

“This one guy, Buck or Doug or Leboy, somethin’ stupid like that, him an’ me hit it off. Well, he’d give me drugs in exchange for me _suckin’_ him off, at any rate.” Daryl says this casually, like someone else might mention an innocent childhood friendship, and Rick feels his anger like a crescendo. He’s furious on behalf of what this man had lived through in his youth, in large part because he knows Daryl himself will never feel the same resentment towards it. “One night, he wanted a lil’ more’an that. Wanted to fuck. I didn’t. I…I hadn’t. I was…”

“Young.” Rick croaks, feeling his whole body go very still as every one of his muscles prepares for a fight he’s got no way to win. “How young?” He asks, because he doesn’t figure anything Daryl can say will be worse than what he’s imagining. 

“Fifteen.” 

Rick sucks in a sharp breath, and Daryl looks like he’s beginning to regret starting this. 

“Nuthin’ happened to me that night, man.” He soothes almost immediately, raking both his hands through Rick’s curls, scratching his nails lightly across his scalp and trying to get him to focus. 

Rick manages it, but just barely. 

“What’d I just say?” Daryl asks him after a minute of letting him catch his breath. 

“That some asshole junkie fuck tried to-tried to.” His heart’s pounding too quickly, and the blood rushing through his ears sounds like quicksand. 

“No, Rick, c’mon.” Daryl says forcefully, grabbing his head and positioning it until their eyes are locked again. “What did I _say_?”

Rick repeats the words in his head – knows now that he’ll never forget them, so long as he lives – and tries to figure out what Daryl wants from him. It takes him a few minutes of staring into that all-too familiar blue, but eventually he calms down enough to understand. 

“Nothing happened to you that night.” 

“ _Nuthin’_ happened to me that night.” He repeats meaningfully, and grips the back of Rick’s neck until he’s nodding and breathing evenly again. “Fought with him. I won. Stole that knife off ‘em to boot.” Daryl smirks then, and Rick recognizes it as the one he wears when he feels smug about something. “Tossed it somewhere that night and never really thought about it. That knife.” He nods down to where Rick’s still holding it, fist wrapped around it so tight from his anger that his hand’s almost numb. Daryl doesn’t say anything about that. “After the first time I had sex for real, that’s when I started carryin’ it. Felt like…I dunno. Like I earned it then. Like it wasn’t for nothin’.” 

They’re quiet for a long time after that; with Rick’s left hand running feather-light up and down Daryl’s side, and his right still gripping the weapon and resting on his hip. 

“Fuck,” the hunter breathes some time later, shaking his head like he’s clearing it. “Probably was’t the best time’ta be tellin’ you a story like that.” 

Rick remembers that all of this had started because Hershel and Daryl both think he needs a timeout from his life. He wonders if Daryl’s ever gotten a break from his. 

“Farming,” he says the word like it’s foreign. It feels wrong on his tongue. “Farming.” He repeats, trying to get used to it. 

“You do what you gotta do.” Daryl tells him, and he doesn’t say if he means taking a break or not, but Rick knows. “Keep that knife on ya. You earned it, man.” 

“Call me something else.” Rick requests, and it sounds stupid the second he hears it, but Daryl’s smiling, smiling for real, and it seems like he gets it. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, and there’s a little bit of teasing there, but mostly it’s just _real_. “You do what you gotta do, sweetheart,” his hand goes to the side of Rick’s neck and squeezes. “I’ll do the rest.”

***  
***

“As soon as the fever breaks we’ll know he’s out of the woods.” Madison says quietly, and hands Rick a small baggie filled with pills. “Make sure he gets one of those every six hours. They’re antibiotics. It’s best to take them with food, but he might be too out of it for a while to manage that.”

Cleaning the infected injury had been a struggle, and Daryl had tried to attack them twice more in response to the pain. Luckily for both of them, the infection (and fuck does he hate even thinking that word) had left Daryl fairly weakened. Once that had been taken care of, the two of them, with Carl’s help, had gotten Daryl upstairs into the bedroom. Rick alone had stripped the man of his remaining clothes, save his boxers, and now he’s unconscious again, with a sheet wrapped around his shoulders. 

He and Madison are standing in the doorway of the bedroom – about as far away as Rick’s willing to be from Daryl right now – and Carl’s still there, too, hovering behind them looking worried. 

“I can ask Carol to make some cookies,” his son suggests, sounding desperate to help. “Daryl really likes those.” 

Rick smiles at him. “That’s a good idea.” He agrees, and then adds, “You’ll have to tell her what happened.”

“Should I tell the others, too?” Carl asks, and looks as out of his element as Rick feels. He knows that they’ll have to know, that Daryl will be out of commission for a while at the very least, but he’s also sure that the younger man will hate to have people fawning over him. 

“Let Carol take care of that.” Rick decides, trusting that the older woman will handle the distribution of this particular truth with finesse and probably a fair bit of manipulation. 

Rick doesn’t always agree with the things Carol does, the decisions she makes, sometimes for all of them, but he’d realized at some point that if things hadn’t played out the way they had, he very well might have lost Daryl anyway in the aftermath of banishing Carol from the prison. And considering what it had felt like to _actually_ lose Daryl, that’s not a risk he’s ever willing to take again. 

He might not always agree with Carol, and god knows he’s been jealous of her relationship with Daryl on occasion, but he respects her. And if keeping her with them at all costs is what it takes to keep Daryl with him, too, well, he’s made greater sacrifices in his life. 

“We don’t have the best supply of pain meds,” Madison continues, staying out of the other conversation. Rick knows he can count on her discretion because she still believes firmly in the tenants of medical morals that had been part of the world before, and doctor-patient confidentiality is high among them. “But I can probably swing a few if-”

“He won’t want them.” Rick cuts her off. 

“Dad-” Carl starts, but Rick shakes his head determinedly. 

“No, he won’t want to take them away from someone else.” Rick insists, leaving out the other, darker reason he knows his partner isn’t a fan of them. “Not for something like this.” Carl bites his lip hard but nods. 

Rick sighs in response to his obvious concern. “If it gets too bad, if he needs them, I’ll make sure he gets them, alright?” 

Carl looks relieved enough, and nods. If there’s one thing he’s apt to trust in it’s how well Daryl and Rick take care of each other. 

“Alright,” Madison nods. She doesn’t look thrilled, but she respects Rick’s decision. “I’ll be back to clean that wound again tomorrow. Make sure it stays dry. Make sure he stays hydrated, too. As much water as you can get him to drink. Come find me if he seems worse, if he starts hallucinating again, or if he says anything about his leg hurting, alright?” 

“Wait, so he’s going to be okay?” Carl asks, looking between the two adults eagerly. “Like, definitely okay?” 

Rick opens his mouth to respond, but Madison beats him to it. “Like I said, when his fever breaks we’ll know for sure, but he’s strong, he’s healthy, and he’s stubborn.” She smiles at his son. “This is the kind of thing I saw a lot of before…before everything changed, and I’ve never seen anyone not recover from it.” 

Carl looks massively relieved, and Rick would be lying if he said he didn’t feel it, too. 

After Carl leaves the upstairs hallway, gathering Judith up and taking her with him to find Carol – though the baby does sniffle petulantly and make grabby hands at him when they pass by – Rick turns back to Madison. Quietly, even though there’s no one around to overhear him, he asks, “Would he have known? That something was wrong, I mean?” He clarifies at her look. “Could he have said something before it got that bad?”

Madison takes a deliberately deep breath and shakes her head. “Everyone’s different, Rick. And this world has done a lot to increase people’s pain tolerance.” Rick snorts without humor, thinking that this new world is just the latest in a lifetime of things that had done that to Daryl. “You saw him when he went to show you that cut,” she adds. She’d seen the scars while she was examining him, and is probably smart enough to connect them to Rick’s open derision. “He was surprised that it hurt. And infections like that can come on quick. By the time he knew something was wrong, he might have been too sick to do anything about it.” 

Rick nods a few times and smiles, thanking her for being honest. He doesn’t really believe it, though; that Daryl hadn’t known there was something wrong with him. The cut, yeah, he can understand dismissing a little throbbing pain, but Daryl’s instincts should have alerted him to the fact that being that tired, passing out like that, wasn’t normal for him. And he’d been twenty feet away from Carl for at least part of the day. 

He could have asked him to go and get Madison hours earlier – hell, he could have asked for Rick, or Carol, or _anyone_ in the fucking world, alive or dead, and simply the act of him making a request like that would have let Carl in on the fact that something wasn’t right. 

Daryl’s inability to ask for help or admit weakness had been a point of contention between them for a long time, and while Rick had long ago developed a system for dealing with that facet of Daryl’s personality, this incident has old anger flaring to life inside of him.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” Madison repeats. With a barely there hesitance, she reaches out and touches Rick’s forearm. “You gonna be okay?”

Rick inhales deeply and releases it slowly, just like that book he’s not allowed to know Daryl has tells him he should when he’s trying to keep himself calm. He gets there faster than Daryl’s ever been able. 

“Yeah.” He responds, and means it. “We’re gonna be alright.” 

TBC...


	3. Mend Your Soul

***  
 _Loving can heal_  
Loving can mend your soul  
And it's the only thing that I know.  
I swear it will get easier  
Remember that with every piece of ya  
And it's the only thing we take with us when we die.  
***

***  
***

“Oh yeah, you’re fucking fine.” Rick repeats his lover’s earlier words with derision, taking a measured step forward even as Daryl turns around and whips his shirt back over his head, covering the expanse of his side, which is currently covered in nasty scratches and a few deep looking cuts.

“Got back, didn’t I?” The hunter snaps. 

It’s been a couple weeks since Rick’s taken up farming with Hershel, and now that he’s well and truly committed to the interlude, he can’t imagine his life having gone any other direction. He’d needed to be away from the violence so desperately that he doesn’t even like to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t followed everyone’s advice. He wouldn’t be here, that much he knows for sure. He would have burnt himself out and, if not died, followed his earlier decent into mental oblivion. He would have left his kids, and his people, on their own in this world. 

Well, he would have left some of them that way. The others – Carl and Judith included – would have had no problem stepping into line behind Daryl. Hell, it’s what they’re doing, anyway. In the wake of Rick’s timeout, the prison has fallen into a neat coordination of democracy, with Daryl’s input at the helm of most major decisions, whether the archer realizes it or not. 

“What the hell happened, Daryl?” Rick demands. “You got back six hours ago and haven’t said a fucking word…did you even clean those?” 

“Of course I fucking did,” Daryl responds, glaring mightily at Rick even as he stands firmly on “his” side of the cell. “I ain’t stupid.” 

“So when I asked if you were alright,” Rick sneers, angrier than he’s been since he’d laid his gun down, “and you said, _yeah, fine_ , what were you thinking? That ‘cause you weren’t bit or dying or incapacitated that nothing else _mattered_?”

Daryl’s expression morphs from the one of defensive anger he’s been wearing since he’d taken his shirt off, to something closer to confusion. Angry confusion, granted, because he always hates not knowing stuff, but confusion all the same. It makes Rick’s own rage simmer a little. 

“Well, yeah.” The hunter responds like Rick’s the stupid one. “Whaddya want, man, for me’ta start cryin’ every time I get a little bit knocked around?” 

“That’s more than a _little bit_ -” Rick cuts himself off mid-outburst when Daryl flinches. 

It’s just a tiny thing, barely perceptible in the low light of their sleeping quarters, but at Rick’s second frustrated step closer to him, Daryl had jerked himself back like he’d been expecting a blow. 

Rick never forgets that Daryl had been violently abused in his youth. You can’t _forget_ something like that; but sometimes it does fade into the background of their lives. Between Daryl’s strength, and the way he still hides his scars from Rick more often than not, even though the older man’s seen them multiple times by now, Rick doesn’t always stop to consider how Daryl might react to or perceive certain situations. 

To Rick, this conversation is a much needed argument between lovers, hopefully at the end of which a resolution will be reached that will bring them closer together. To Daryl, on the other hand, this may very well feel like a prelude to violence. 

Without thinking about it, he takes a step back and raises his hands in the most classic show of submission in the world. “Easy,” he breathes. His anger vanishes without effort, leaving a crater of guilt in its wake. 

Daryl sneers at his reaction, easily figuring out what had brought it on and probably kicking himself for the involuntarily display of weakness. Which kind of feels like this whole incident coming full circle. 

“Don’t fuckin’ pussyfoot around me, man,” Daryl’s the one stepping forward this time, though he’s mostly balancing his weight steadily and rocking closer into Rick’s space, fierce but easily retractable. “You wanna take a swing at me, be my fuckin’ guest. I’ll put you on your fuckin’ _ass_.” He punctuates this declaration with a raised hand and pointed finger. 

Rick lets himself relax almost completely. Yeah, Daryl might physically be able to beat him in a fight, but Rick knows that the other man wouldn’t do anything more violent than defending himself out of necessity. What would actually crumble beyond repair would be their relationship, if Rick ever attacked Daryl in a moment like this. 

Thing is, Rick never _would_. Not fucking _ever_.

“This ain’t that kinda fight.” Rick says simply, keeping his hands up and his body relaxed. “Me and you? We’re not ever gonna have a fight like that.” 

Daryl blinks rapidly a few times before retreating back into his own space, lowering his arms but keeping his shoulders square. “Yeah,” he snorts sarcastically, “’cause we ain’t ever fought before.”

Rick concedes that violence had been a factor of their early interactions, but it’s been so many years now since Daryl’s been anything to him other than someone he can trust. Even before they’d started the sex thing, Rick couldn’t have imagined wanting to hurt Daryl. 

“When’s the last time we went at it like that?” Rick asks gently, because he actually wants Daryl to think about it. “The farm? Before that?” He finally lets his arms fall to his sides, but doesn’t reach out or step closer. He tilts his head, trying to catch Daryl’s eyes. “We don’t fight like that, Daryl. And definitely not _here_.” He gestures calmly to their cell. “That’s not a part of us.” 

All at once, and somewhat unexpectedly, Daryl’s body loses its rigidness, and he sits down on the edge of the mattress, letting his forehead drop onto his curled up fingers as his thumbs massage at his temples. 

“Then why are you pissed off?” Daryl asks, still staring at the floor. 

It throws Rick; the question itself and the desperation and innocence that’re curled up around it. “Because you lied to me about being hurt,” Rick says, though it sounds more like another question than an answer. “Daryl…” he steps closer again, and when the younger man doesn’t flinch, or even react, Rick takes a breath and goes for broke. He kneels down in front of where Daryl’s sitting on the bed, not quite touching him but most definitely in his space. “We’re gonna fight, you’an me. Now that we’re…like this. It’s gonna happen. That doesn’t mean that we’re gonna _fight_.” 

Daryl’s still got his head down, and doesn’t respond to him. It should make him nervous, the uncertainty of this moment, but instead he just feels resolved. He’s going to get Daryl to understand this. “Hey. Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He places his hand ever so carefully on Daryl’s knee, and while the younger man twitches at the contact, his breathing stays even and he doesn’t try to pull away. After a few seconds he says, “I didn’t lie to you.” 

Rick can’t control the expression that crosses his face at those words. _Bull-fucking-shit_ , he’s pretty sure it reads. But Daryl’s not looking at him, and after another beat or two, Rick realizes that he’s telling the truth. The truth as he sees it, anyway. 

And maybe this whole thing is just a matter of perception. 

“You really believe that?” Rick asks gently. 

Daryl finally raises his head. “Fuck you, man, of course I believe that.” His words are harsh, but there are no physical movements to back them. “It’s the fucking truth. I’m fine. Don’t get why you’re making this such a big ass fucking deal. Coulda been havin’ sex by now if you weren’t so goddamn hung up on stupid shit.” 

Sometimes the best way to get Daryl to talk is to piss him off. And now that he has, Rick’s pretty sure he’s starting to understand. 

“I just get worried about you,” he explains with a lopsided smile, bowing out of the argument. He knows now that he’s got no way of winning it, so instead he starts formulating a plan. _Work smarter_ , his dad had used to tell him, _not harder_. 

“I can take care of myself,” Daryl mumbles, but he doesn’t even sound angry anymore. He’s looking down at Rick with hesitantly hopeful eyes, and the older man makes sure that his are equally reassuring. 

“I know,” he says easily, and moves his free hand to Daryl’s other knee before running them both up his outer thighs. He stops when he reaches those always jutting hipbones, and presses his thumbs firmly into the crevices. 

Daryl hisses and starts breathing faster, like he always does when Rick puts his hands there. The reaction is a combination of Daryl’s natural sensitivity and learned behavior – because there hasn’t been an interaction between them yet that’s started with Rick pressing at the jut of Daryl’s hipbones and not ended in Rick’s mouth around his dick. 

“You don’t gotta,” Daryl tells him quietly, and Rick looks up, confused. “Because we fought, I mean.” He clarifies, and Rick understands, because Daryl always double checks about things like this. Now that Rick knows what had almost happened to him when he was a teenager, he supposes it makes sense. 

“Not cause’a that,” Rick assures him. He wants to remind Daryl that he can trust Rick with more than just his life. “Just ‘cause. You wanna?” 

Daryl snorts, “’Course I do.” 

“Hmmm,” Rick agrees, moving one hand over to rub Daryl’s cock, already getting hard in his jeans. And just like that, feeling his lover’s arousal has his own dick up and at attention. He makes to palm himself, too, but Daryl sees him do it and shakes his head. Rick stops without thinking. 

“Don’t,” Daryl rasps. “I’mma do that. Later.” 

Rick swallows thickly but nods. Without much ado, he gets Daryl to stand up just long enough to drop his jeans and underwear to the floor before sitting back down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread. Unlike his earlier position, curled in tight around himself, the archer is now spread out, leaning back on both his arms and staring at Rick. His bare cock is curved up against his stomach, and Rick licks his lips staring at it. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Daryl encourages him, and it’s the use of Daryl’s favorite pet name that’s got the last remnants of concern unraveling themselves from around his insides. As far as Daryl’s concerned, the fighting part of their evening is over.

Rick takes the other man’s cock in his hand and holds it steady while he licks a long stripe from base to tip, smirking a little when Daryl bites his lip to hold back a groan. He flicks his tongue across the head, and then dips low to mouth at Daryl’s sack, keeping a loose hold around him all the while. 

“Fuck,” the younger man breathes, and Rick’s stomach clenches tight in arousal at having caused that sound. He just barely stops himself from touching his own dick again, instead thrusting a little against the fabric of his jeans – which are very suddenly too tight. 

After a few more minutes of blatant teasing, Daryl lets out a frustrated growl and slides one of his hands into Rick’s hair, fisting just hard enough to make him stop moving, but not hard enough. When their eyes meet, Daryl’s are glassy with arousal. “Stop dicking around.”

“Pun intended?” Rick smirks. 

“Suck my dick.” Daryl commands. 

“I think that would count as dicking around,” the other man mentions, not trying to hide his amusement, “And you did just say-” He stops himself when Daryl’s hand moves down to his throat and squeezes. 

It had taken Daryl a long while to be okay with the fact that Rick occasionally likes his sex a little rough (more than a little, and more than occasionally, if he’s being honest), but once they’d worked out safewords and stop-signals, the archer had been perfectly fine to get a little domineering in the bedroom. It seems to work well for them, actually, because Daryl’s naturally aggressive but has chosen to submit leadership to Rick in his day-to-day life (current situation notwithstanding) and Rick can’t be in control all of the time, it’s just too much for him to handle. It’s a balance he’d tried and mostly failed to find with Lori, and one that seems almost effortless with Daryl. 

He hadn’t really been expecting it tonight, though, not after their fight. But then again, maybe he should have been. It seems to be what both of them need. 

Rick lets go of Daryl’s dick entirely and braces himself against the other man’s knees as he tilts his head back, encouraging his movements. Daryl lets up after a frustratingly short amount of time, and Rick gasps as he pulls away. He’s never rough enough to leave bruises. 

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth,” Daryl tells him softly, letting his hand cup Rick’s face and his thumb brush over his bottom lip. Rick nods even as he turns his head and opens his mouth, sucking unashamedly on the wandering appendage. Daryl’s eyes go dark at his movements. “Fuck,” he breathes. “And you’re not gonna touch yourself at all. When I’m done, I’m gonna make it worth your while. Alright?” 

It had taken Daryl a long time to get on board with aggressive sex, but god once he had, he’d been good at it. So good that Rick wonders sometimes if this is his only experience with something like this. 

Rick lets Daryl’s thumb pop out of his mouth. He nods quickly. “Yeah.” 

The first slide of Daryl’s dick down his throat makes him moan, mostly in anticipation. He sucks hard a few times, dragging his lips up and down, letting his tongue wind around the tip once or twice, before he relaxes the muscles in his throat entirely and slips his hands down to Daryl’s ass, encouraging him to thrust up. 

As always, his movements at first are stilted and shallow, making sure Rick’s okay with what he’s doing, but after a few minutes the older man pushes up on his ass at the same time he sucks hard and hums. 

“Aw, hell,” Daryl grunts, and abandons all pretenses of being gentle as he fucks into Rick roughly. The grip he’s got on his hair is hard enough to almost hurt, and that just makes Rick’s own cock throb all the more desperately. 

Usually he jacks himself off while Daryl fucks him like this. Without being allowed that relief, all of his attention is on the feel of Daryl in his throat, and damn if that doesn’t make him desperate enough to whimper. 

Misinterpreting the sound, Daryl slows down and looks at him with concern. “You alright?” 

Rick pulls off shortly, wiping the drool off of his chin, and nods rapidly. “Fuck, Daryl, just fuckin’ come. I’m dyin’.” He thrusts his hips forward slightly to indicate his ever straining erection. 

Daryl smirks. “If I let you take your pants off, you gonna be able to keep from touchin’ yourself?” 

“No.” Rick responds honestly. 

Daryl grins. “Then you better get back at it, sweetheart.” 

Rick does with a vengeance, meeting each of Daryl’s thrusts as best he can without choking, and playing with his balls while he’s at it. Daryl, he’s pretty sure, is doing his best to keep from coming on purpose, because there’s nothing he likes more than Rick desperate for him. Eventually, though, the combination of Rick’s mouth and hands is just too much, and with one final hard press against the man’s hipbone, Daryl’s muffling a cry against his fist and coming hard down Rick’s throat. 

Rick pulls off once he’s sucked Daryl completely dry, but keeps his face between his legs, nuzzling at the now soft cock and biting at the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. He allows the younger man several minutes to calm down. “Fuck, that was good,” Daryl praises, running a hand through Rick’s hair, letting his nails scrape against him lightly. 

Rick says _thank you_ by dropping his head to Daryl’s knee and shamelessly rutting his throbbing, cloth covered cock against the other man’s leg. 

Daryl smirks again. “Yeah, I know,” he says softly, licking his own lips this time. “Get naked and lay on the bed. I’ll take care’a ya now.”

Rick knows it’s too soon for Daryl to be able to fuck him, and kind of regrets not holding the other man’s orgasm at bay and insisting on that. Then again, if he’s honest with himself, he still feels a little guilty for making Daryl flinch like he had earlier, and if what Daryl wants now is sucking session, well…it’s not like Rick isn’t enjoying it. 

Eagerly, the older man complies with Daryl’s demand, and is on the bed sans clothing in about thirty seconds flat. He’s got his legs drawn up mostly out of necessity, given the size of the bed, and Daryl crawls in between them like a slinking cat. 

He begins without any fanfare, swiping his tongue over one of Rick’s balls. The older man gasps loudly, and Daryl pulls back to fix him with a stern look. “Keep quiet,” he demands. “Wanna wake up the whole damn prison?” 

Rick glares at him. “Pretty sure you were louder than that a few minutes ago.” 

“Oh yeah?” Daryl challenges, and moves forward until his entire body is over Rick’s, making the other man feel inexplicably calm. He spends a few seconds biting and scratching at his nipples before maneuvering up just a fraction farther and kissing him. 

It hadn’t occurred to him until just then that they hadn’t kissed since before their fight. Rick arches full body into the touch at the same moment Daryl thrusts downwards. This time, they both groan. Daryl pulls away and starts mouthing along Rick’s neck, sucking a mark at the junction of his shoulder. Rick’s thrusting steadily against the younger man’s hip now, completely lost in the sensations because he fucking _loves_ it when Daryl marks him like this. 

“You’re gonna regret it if ya come ‘fore I put my mouth on ya.” Daryl warns him, whispering the words hotly against his ear. 

“Then fucking put your mouth on me.” Rick suggests with a groan. 

“Now that wasn’t very polite, sweetheart.” Daryl drawls against his skin. 

Rick tends to fucking lose it when Daryl makes him beg. “Please,” he gasps, trying to keep the desperation from making him any louder. Because Daryl’s not wrong – noises echo in here. That’s why most people opt for the guard tower or the generator room for their adult activities. “Fucking please, jesus, Daryl. Please.” 

The younger man moves back just enough to get two of his fingers in front of Rick’s mouth, saying, “Get’em wet for me,” even as Rick’s opening up to let them in.

It occurs to him then, with Daryl’s fingers in his mouth and his lips sucking a matching bruise on the other side of his neck, that he’s so close to the edge right now because Daryl had committed himself to getting him that way, by doing every single goddamn thing that drives Rick crazy. He’d made sure when they’d started that Rick wasn’t doing this just in an attempt to apologize, but is that exactly what Daryl’s doing? 

Rick takes Daryl’s wrist in his hand, not letting his fingers out of his mouth, but meeting his eyes firmly. All he sees staring back at him is a wealth of desire and affection. If Daryl’s doing this to make Rick happy, it sure as hell isn’t making him _unhappy_ in the process. He nods once and then continues to slobber all over Daryl’s fingers. After all, he knows exactly where they’re going. 

“Oughtta get you a gag,” Daryl whispers harshly, pressing down on his tongue. “Whaddya think? Gotta be a sex store around here somewhere that ain’t been looted yet.” 

Rick whimpers again, but it’s quieter than before. Daryl pulls away from him and slithers his way back down Rick’s body, stopping at his cock just long enough to thumb over the head once before taking it into his mouth. Rick grits his teeth so hard that he’d probably regret it if dentists were still a thing they had to worry about, and thrusts up blindly. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he hisses quietly. 

Daryl uses his left hand to play at the base of dick, and his right circles around until he’s nudging at Rick’s hole. The older man lifts himself up slightly by wrapping his leg around Daryl’s thigh. Normally he’d rest it around his waist or back, but the injury that had started all of this is still fresh in the former deputy’s mind. 

When Daryl’s first finger enters him, it’s rough despite the spit-lube and the pressure burns. It’s perfect. Rick thrusts back against it and rolls his hips. He has a feeling he won’t last too long once Daryl finds his prostate. 

The archer spends a few minutes pressing at his inner walls and moving his finger in and out at the same speed that his mouth is moving over Rick’s cock, until the older man can’t take it anymore and says, “Please, fuck, more dammit,” just a touch too loud. 

Daryl responds by shoving a second finger inside of him roughly and pulling off his dick almost all the way, so only the head is in his mouth. Rick cants up into that wet heat he craves so bad, but Daryl’s fingers don’t follow his movements. So he presses back down, only to leave his dick almost completely bare. It doesn’t take him long to catch on to the game. Rick can only have one at a time, and Daryl’s going to make him choose which. Going to make him work for it. 

Rick realizes belatedly that the teasing is a punishment for being loud, and just thinking that makes him want to groan wantonly. He refrains, though, turning his head and burying his face in the pillow even as he rocks forcefully between Daryl’s fingers and mouth. He won’t be able to come like this, but goddamn does it feel like he might. 

After what seems like an eternity of this merciless teasing, Daryl pops off his cock and says, “Ready to come for me?” 

“Please,” he croaks, and it sounds broken even to him. 

Daryl kisses his knee in acknowledgement and leans back down, taking all of him in with one impressive swallow. At the same time he crooks his fingers up and presses hard against that magical little bundle of nerves inside of him. It takes less than a minute before Rick is shooting hard down Daryl’s throat, completely unconcerned with the sounds he makes while doing it. 

Afterwards, Daryl crawls up beside him and rests his head on his chest. Rick, still panting, wraps an arm loosely around his waist. They stay like that for a long time, just laying still and being with each other. 

“Will you let Hershel take a look at those tomorrow?” Rick asks quietly, right before they fall asleep. 

Daryl grunts but doesn’t move, doesn’t even tense up, in response to the question. 

After a few minutes of silence Rick adds, “please,” very quietly, even though he knows that doing so isn’t exactly fair. 

Daryl sighs once, but makes a move that feels like a shrug. “If ya want me to, yeah, sure.” 

“Thank you.” Rick whispers, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. 

They both sleep very soundly that night.

***

A few days later Daryl comes back from a solo hunt with a buck over his shoulder. Rick watches from his garden as Daryl is greeted by the others with reverence. It’s funny because the younger man doesn’t even see it, the way these people practically worship the ground he walks on.

And, yeah, maybe Rick’s absence had left the void a little wider, but, truth is, people would fawn around the hunter even if Rick were still at the helm full steam. People are drawn to Daryl, whether he likes it or not. Carl had even told him that between being Rick’s son and having an in with Daryl, he’s the most popular kid in their newly formed little group of them. 

Rick goes back to tending his plants while Daryl deposits the deer with some of the others for cleaning and cooking, checks in on Carl and Judith briefly, and washes the blood from his hands and forearms. About forty minutes after he’d arrived home, Daryl seeks him out. 

He doesn’t always do this. Sometimes it’s still up to Rick to initiate reunions, but Daryl’s getting better at admitting when he wants to be around people. 

Rick sticks his shovel in the ground at his lover’s approach. Daryl looks flushed and slightly pissed. 

“They’re gonna be grateful when you bring them food,” Rick chides before Daryl can even open his mouth to complain. “Just be gracious and get over it.” 

“S’what Carol said, too. Y’all are tryin’ to domesticate me,” Daryl rolls his eyes, but can’t stop his lip from twitching up. “How’s these tomatoes comin’ along, Farmer Man?” 

Rick snorts. “They’re gettin’ there,” he answers, and then gives Daryl a thorough once over. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, fine,” Daryl shrugs, rubbing at a patch of dried blood on the side of his arm that he’d missed earlier. 

Rick takes a deep breath, and silently prays that he’s right about why Daryl always responds like that. Because if he’s wrong, that means the real answer is about trust and love and Daryl maybe not having as much of either for Rick as he’d initially thought. Deep down he knows he’s got it figured out right, knows this is about Daryl and not _them_. 

Deeper down than that he has to be sure. 

“You get hurt at all?” he asks, watching Daryl closely. 

The younger man doesn’t stop picking at the dried blood. “Twisted my knee a little jumpin’ out a damn tree.” He says casually. 

Rick exhales shakily. “How long that gonna put you out?”

Daryl shrugs. “Probably rest it tomorrow, be fine the day after.” He finally looks up. “Why? ‘Cause I already told ya, farmin’ ain’t my bag.” 

Rick shakes his head but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, I know.” He agrees. “Was thinking maybe I’d give it a rest tomorrow, too. Keep ya company?” 

“You got a fuckin’ dirty mind, sweetheart,” Daryl bares his teeth in wide a grin. 

Rick chuckles back, letting the rest of the world fall away in favor of feeling just this: the joy and relief that comes from knowing for sure that Daryl’s never once lied to him about anything.

***  
***

Around midnight, Daryl’s fever reaches a high point. The younger man wakes from what had been a fitful sleep with a pained whimper. Rick, who’d been dosing lightly by his side, is wide awake within a heartbeat.

“Hey, Daryl,” He nudges him gently, smiling a little at the way Daryl’s curled towards him and trying to bury himself in Rick’s side. “Baby, wake up.” He runs a hand through his hair and then down his back. 

“Didn’t mean to,” Daryl whispers into his chest. “M’sorry. So sorry.”

Rick’s heart clenches painfully. He doesn’t know what Daryl’s dreaming about, but his tone is laced with guilt and regret. “Hey, you gotta wake up,” he says a little more firmly. He hates that this condition is giving Daryl nightmares, but he has to make sure that it is _just_ a nightmare, and not a spike in his fever that’s making his delusional again. “Daryl.” 

The hunter’s breathing changes and his body stills. “Rick?” He makes to pull away, mumbling something that might be an apology, but the constable pulls him back. Not so hard that he couldn’t get away if that’s what he really wanted, but firmly enough that Daryl knows he’s allowed to stay. 

The older man presses a hand against his forehead and finds it burning. “Think you oughtta take another antibiotic,” he says, mostly to himself. It’s only been about five hours, but since he’s awake now and obviously still in pain, it couldn’t hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” Daryl repeats. 

Rick inhales sharply and forces Daryl to face him. He only relaxes when he’s sure that the younger man isn’t lost in some other time and place. He’s thinking about something awful, Rick’s sure of that, but he’s not _reliving_ it. 

“Why?” Rick asks, moving himself closer until their foreheads are almost touching. They’re lying facing each other, sharing a pillow, and Daryl’s curled up on his side with Rick’s arm firmly in his grasp, holding onto it like one might a security blanket. 

“Fucked up,” Daryl croaks. He closes his eyes and angles his chin closer to his chest. “I jus’…fucked up everything, y’know?” 

Rick shakes his head, using his free hand to rub Daryl’s back; a comfort that the hunter almost always accepts and even seems to crave, despite his scars. Or maybe because of them. “No you didn’t.” He says firmly. 

“She _died_.” Daryl sniffs, and Rick can’t help but cringe. He should have known it would be Beth. “She died because I thought there was a fucking dog at the door.” 

Rick knows he’d just checked, but damn if those words don’t _sound_ like some kind of delusion. “Tell me that makes sense and you’re not hallucinating.” He demands quietly, stopping his hand on the base of Daryl’s neck and squeezing. 

The younger man makes a low sound deep in his throat and moves a fraction of an inch, and somehow Rick can read exactly what he wants from that, and begins rubbing his back again. “We were at a funeral home,” Daryl explains coherently. “I let my guard down. Swear it was jus’ for a second. She…she fuckin’ _got_ to me, Rick. Got in. Don’t even know how. Woke me up or somethin’. Kept me alive. Couldn’t do the same for her. Had one fuckin’ job and I fucked it up.” 

“No, you didn’t.” Rick insists again, and can’t help it when his mind starts slotting together the similarities between this conversation and the dozen or more that he and Daryl have had over the years about him and Lori. Because sometimes Rick still wakes up in the middle of the night hating himself for what had happened to her. He hasn’t seen her ghost since before he’d taken up farming back at the prison, but that doesn’t stop him from remembering her, from seeing her in Carl and Judith. 

Rick hasn’t asked Daryl what had happened between him and Beth while they’d been on the road together. Truthfully, he doesn’t need to know. Maybe if she’d come back alive it would have been an issue eventually, but as it stands now, it doesn’t matter to Rick if she and Daryl had found more than platonic comfort in one another. He can’t be jealous of a ghost. 

Daryl doesn’t argue with him anymore after that. Rick wishes he would. Because when Daryl fights, it’s because he knows that there’s something worth fighting over, and even if he’s sure he’s right, the simple act of having the argument allows Rick to show him a different way of thinking about it. And eventually, usually, Daryl will at least acknowledge that Rick might have a valid point from where he’s standing looking at it. 

When Daryl doesn’t fight back at all, that’s when Rick knows he’s lost. 

With a heavy sigh, he pulls his partner farther into his side, dipping down just low enough to brush a kiss across his forehead. “We can talk about it when you’re better,” he whispers, mostly to himself. If he squints, he can still make out the burn on Daryl’s hand – the one that he’d never asked about even though he’d known damn well exactly what had caused it. “Probably should.” He adds just as quietly. “It won’t feel as heavy once you’re better. I promise.” 

He doesn’t know if Daryl really hears him, but the younger man falls back to sleep a few minutes later and stays that way without another nightmare until his fever breaks. 

TBC...


	4. Keep Me (Inside the Pocket of Your Ripped Jeans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, this took a little longer to get out than I had hoped - my work schedule is not conducive to keeping an efficient writing timetable, as it turns out - but it's here now, and it's a pretty long one. I wanted to cut it in half, originally, but couldn't find a good place to do it, so...hope you like it!

***  
_So you can keep me_  
Inside the pocket  
Of your ripped jeans  
Holdin' me closer  
'Til our eyes meet  
You won't ever be alone  
***

***

Rick can’t help drawing the correlations – between what had almost happened to Daryl years before Rick had known him and what had almost happened to his son.

On his better days, during the calmer moments when Daryl and Carl are happy, Rick can find salvation in that _almost_. They’re alive. Both of them. They’re alive and strong and affected, most definitely, by what they’d endured, but they’re not broken. Sometimes, when it’s quiet, knowing that is enough. 

Other times nothing is enough. When his thoughts are loud; when Carl flinches at an unexpected touch or when Daryl responds to Rick’s request to fuck him with a drawn expression and a painfully pleading, _“not tonight?”_ – those are the moments the former deputy knows he could lose his mind all over again. 

When Daryl had told him, the morning after their attack by Joe and his men, that anyone would have done what he’d done, Rick had immediately disagreed. _“No,”_ he’d insisted, _“not that.”_ But Daryl hadn’t really been talking about _anyone_. It’d taken Rick hours to figure that out. Daryl had been talking about himself. 

“ _I_ would have done that.” He’d been saying. “I almost did.” 

Rick doesn’t know the details of what had happened between Daryl and _Buck or Doug or Leboy, somethin’ stupid like that_ , but he had asked Daryl once, years ago, if he’d ever killed anyone before the world had changed, and Daryl’s response had been firmly negative. 

Since that night, Rick’s had dreams about it. Dreams where Joe had killed him and Carl hadn’t gotten away in time. Dreams where Daryl was the one under the man’s oppressive hold, screaming and squirming, fighting and failing to get free. Dreams where The Governor was back in place of Joe’s man. Dreams where Maggie was there instead of Michonne, where Maggie had suffered just like Glenn had told them she had in real life, at the sadistic man’s hands. Dreams where Judith was older, and there instead of Maggie. 

Daryl calls them nightmares when he wakes up with a scream caught in his throat and his hands curled into ready fists. Daryl also always lets him deal with them anyway he needs to. If Rick wants to rant about the unfairness of life, Daryl listens. If he wants to curl up and hide, Daryl holds him steady and pretends not to notice where his shirt gets wet from Rick’s tears. If he wants to be alone Daryl doesn’t try to follow him. And if he wants to hurt something as hard as he can, Daryl saddles them up at first light, hunts until he finds a reasonably sized hoard, and then watches Rick’s back while the older man obliterates every walking corpse he can reach with his bare hands and Daryl’s mother-of-pearl handled knife. 

Rick knows they are, too. Nightmares. He just doesn’t like calling them that. He’s not sure why. Something about words and power, probably. Maybe perception, too. _Nightmare_ is a word for what they’ve actually lived through, what they’re sure to experience again in this world, no matter how safe they are in Alexandria. Nightmares are real now. Dreams are just the leftovers, no matter how much worse they feel in the moment. 

Daryl doesn’t have nightmares often – except apparently when he’s sick; which, at least this whole ordeal has taught him something, he supposes. In fact, Rick can only recall two times before now when Daryl had woken from sleep anything other than calm and alert. Once had been right after Merle had died.

That had been only a few weeks after Rick and Daryl had started exploring the less platonic side of their relationship, and Daryl had withdrawn from him completely in the wake of his brother’s death. 

Rick remembers that for eight nights after Daryl had gotten back to the prison, the younger man had taken to sleeping in an uninhabited cell block, despite the danger of it. At first Rick, Carol, and Hershel had all taken turns trying to coax Daryl back into the general population, but the hunter would never budge. He’d respond shortly and dully to their questions, comments, and rambling speeches. No matter what they’d said in the days after his death, Daryl had known that they’d all hated Merle when he’d been alive. Rick had tried to focus on the obvious devotion the elder Dixon had had for his brother, but Daryl hadn’t wanted to hear it. 

After the fifth night, Rick had taken to staying in the barren cell block with him. Daryl had looked surprised at first, when he’d realized what Rick was doing, but he hadn’t said anything about it. Rick hadn’t known then if that was a good sign or not. He’s able to look back on it now and see it as the show of trust it had been, but he hadn’t known Daryl then the way he does now – intimately. 

Every few hours, while they’d been sharing that cell block, Daryl would wake from whatever dose he’d slipped into with a plea half-dying on his lips and a weapon, any weapon, already in his hands. Rick had almost taken an arrow to the gut that first night he’d stayed with Daryl, and after that the hunter had made a show of unloading his bow before lying down.

On their second night like that, sharing space and not talking, Daryl had woken abruptly and breathing hard. They’d been on opposite ends of the room, both cocooned in sleeping bags and blankets since there’d been no beds, and at Daryl’s startled movements Rick had ducked his head, trying to catch his eye without moving. 

It’d taken him a few minutes, but eventually Daryl had met his gaze and nodded shortly, moving until he was sitting with his back against the wall. 

“I keep forgetting,” he’d whispered in the dark, staring down at his knees. 

Rick had bitten his lip hard, trying to think of the right thing to say. In reality there’s never a right thing to say. He’d known that then as well as he does now; he’d just wished, for Daryl’s sake, that there was. 

“Forgot how to wake up miserable,” Daryl had gone on, while Rick had still been struggling to come up with the perfect sentiment. “Used to know.”

He’d had to blink then, against the sudden onslaught of tears that wouldn’t have helped a damn thing. 

“Wanna come over here?” Rick had asked, smiling comfortingly when Daryl had looked up at him. 

He’d considered it for a moment and then shaken his head. “Ain’t really in the mood for that.” 

Instead of feeling insulted that Daryl would think _that’s_ what he’d be after in a moment like that, Rick had simply felt sad for him. “Me neither.” He’d whispered. “Just thought you’d rest easier, maybe, next to somebody. Next to me.” He’d felt the need to specify, because he’d wanted Daryl to know that this offer was exclusive to _their_ relationship. 

The hunter had chewed his lip and stared at him for a long while after that, conflicted. Rick had left him to his contemplations, knowing that too many words would be apt to spook Daryl. Instead, he’d sat quietly, offering the hunter a steady gaze and the occasional half-smile when his eyes would drift over. 

It had been without warning that Daryl had stood up, dragged his blanket over to Rick’s side of the cell, and laid down with his head on the other man’s thigh. Rick, who’d been pretty sure that Daryl had wanted the comfort enough to work through his internal conflicts, had been a little taken aback by the all-or-nothingness of the gesture. 

He hadn’t known then that that’s how Daryl handles most emotional conflicts. 

It had been a turning point for them that night; the first time they’d let friendship and sex bleed into something more, something primal and absolute. It’d taken weeks more for either of them to call it _love_ , but Rick will never forget how it had started.

***  
***

Somewhere around sunrise is when Daryl’s fever breaks.

By mid-morning, the younger man is half-sitting up in bed, looking for all the world like he wants to get out of it. 

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Rick says sternly, returning from the kitchen with a tall glass of water and two of Carol’s cookies. 

“Think about what?” Daryl asks petulantly, flinging the blanket away from his side and plucking at the bandage wrapped around his leg. He’d tugged on Rick’s white t-shirt at some point – the fabric stretching unforgivingly around the expanse of his chest and shoulders – leaving Rick to pluck through the laundry down the hall. He’d wound up with a grey shirt that may or may not be clean. 

“Getting up.” Rick replies evenly, crawling back into the bed and sitting against the headboard so that their shoulders touch. He reaches for the water he’d set on the bedside table and hands it to Daryl. “Drink this.” 

Daryl complies without an argument, draining most of the glass in one go. He eats one cookie, and about half of the other before handing it off to Rick. “Ain’t hungry,” he shrugs when the constable fixes him with a stern expression. 

“Better than nothin’, I guess,” Rick sighs, when he sees the resolve in Daryl’s gaze and knows he won’t win. He passes him one of the antibiotics and this time he’s the one that doesn’t back off until Daryl’s submitted. 

“I’m fine, Rick.” Daryl says after he takes the pill, for probably about the ninth time since he’d reached a state of total coherence. “Don’t gotta…” 

“What? Worry?” Rick fills in after Daryl trails off. 

“Sorry,” the archer ducks his gaze and bites his lip, looking like a scolded puppy. 

“I’m not mad at you.” Rick sighs when Daryl’s eyes flash their surprise. He’d guessed, but he should have known. “Why didn’t you tell someone? That something was wrong?”

Daryl shrugs, picking the glass of water back up, taking a sip, and then rubbing his thumb along the rim. “Wasn’t sure there was.” 

“But you thought there might be.” Rick presses. Daryl looks like he’s about to get defensive, so Rick cuts him off before he can get there. “Judith did.” 

“What?” He looks confused now. 

“She was sittin’ on you, musta fallen asleep with her.” Daryl nods, remembering. “She was up when I got back. Sittin’ there starin’ at me like I was doin’ something wrong not noticing you. She told me you were hurt.” 

The hunter’s face blooms into something unashamedly happy, and Rick’s confused by that, almost angry, until Daryl says, “Damn that’s one smart kid.” 

Rick’s expression softens and he chuckles softly. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.” 

“’Member her cryin’,” he looks like trying to slot fractured thoughts together. 

“Yeah,” Rick helps him out. “Carl moved her to try ‘an get you to wake up. Worked.” Rick huffs a small laugh. “Two smart kids.” 

Daryl hums quietly at his explanation, and then spends another few minutes sneaking sideways looks at him from under those ever-growing bangs. Eventually he lets out sigh and says, “We gonna do the thing now?” 

“You mean talk?” 

“Yeah.” He grunts. 

Rick shakes his head and smiles, “You always say that like doin’ it’s gonna make the world end again, or something.” 

“Mighta done it the first time.” Daryl raises an eyebrow at him. “We don’t know how all this shit started.” 

Rick laughs outright. “Fair enough, I guess.” He waits a few more beats and then nudges his partner’s shoulder. “For me?” 

Daryl sighs deeply, but in the end he gives in. When it’s Rick asking him for something, he almost always gives in.

***  
***

The next time Rick had been witness to Daryl having a nightmare had been much later, right after they’d lost Beth. And, to be honest, Rick hadn’t even really witnessed that one. Just the aftermath of it.

He’d been on patrol that night – the lot of them having found shelter in an abandoned hunting cabin. Walking the perimeter and letting his mind wander as much as he could and still stay alert. His heart had stopped when he’d heard the first scream, and he’d been back inside in less than a minute. 

It had already been chaotic by then, and Rick had taken in multiple things all at once. Judith had been crying, but Michonne had been holding her – back in a corner away from everyone else. Carl had been sitting up on the floor, way too close to the epicenter of potential destruction. Abraham, Rosita, Tara, and most of the others had been holding weapons, though none were pointed anywhere that could cause real damage; save Maggie, who’d had a gun leveled right at Daryl’s chest. 

And there, in the center of the room, Daryl had been on his feet, eyes crazed in a way that Rick had never seen on anybody (though he might have if he ever would have looked in a mirror back at the prison before he’d started farming), with a loaded crossbow aimed dead center between Glenn’s eyes. 

The Asian man had had his hands up and looked calm – calmer than everyone else in the room, quite honestly – but Rick had been able to tell that most of that had been in an attempt to keep his wife from shooting Daryl. Later, Rick hadn’t been able to fault Maggie her reaction, not after what she and Glenn had gone through to find each other after the prison had fallen – and Rick had known he’d have reacted the same way to someone threatening to kill Daryl, lucidly or not. In the moment, though, all Rick had seen was someone pointing a gun at the man _he’d_ just gotten back, and he’d reacted without any sort of thought. 

Maggie had tried to fight him when he’d lunged to get the weapon out of her hands, and the commotion of the struggle had gotten Daryl’s attention off of Glenn. Which, grated, hadn’t been Rick’s actual goal, but he’d been glad for it in the ensuing moments. The hunter’s change of target had allowed Glenn the chance to tackle Daryl to the ground. 

Rick hadn’t been fully aware of it then, but later, playing it back in his mind’s eye, he’d seen how completely the room and the people in it had split. No one ever wants to hurt their own, but sometimes circumstances conspire; and in the heat of panic that had swelled within their tiny cabin that night, half of their people had sided with Rick and Daryl, the other half with Glenn and Maggie. Their choices had been drawn in the direction of their weapons. 

Before Rick had even really processed the division of loyalty, Glenn and Daryl had stolen his attention. The younger man had managed to wrestle Daryl’s crossbow away from him, and had just ducked an impressively wild sucker punch from the archer when Rick had found his footing enough to move between them. 

“Stop! Fucking stop,” he’d said loudly and with authority, stretching out his arms and raising his palms to both of them. Glenn had backed off, a little, but Daryl had still been too out of it. Not quite sleepwalking, but dazed and lost, letting the muscle memory born from so many years of waking up afraid take over. 

“Hey, Daryl. Hey.” Rick had said, turning his whole body until it had just been the two of them, facing each other. Rick had left his back turned to all the weapons in the room, knowing that not a single one of them would fire at him, and that as long as he was between Daryl and everyone else, that his partner would be safe. 

“Look at me,” he’d instructed the younger man. 

But Daryl hadn’t been able to. Maybe in a perfect world, or just a normal one, where love could fix things, he might have; but the dead had taken that world from them, and Daryl had been as lost that night as everyone else had been at the beginning of the end. 

Daryl has two stances when he’s preparing to fight, and Rick’s seen both of them on more occasions than he cares to recall. The first is aggressive: get in someone’s face and don’t back down, _ever_ , aggressive. Aggressive like Rick knows Merle had been, and how he imagines the eldest Dixon had been back in his day. Aggressive like _run for your life, it’s the only chance you’ve got_. Rick doesn’t like the fact that he’s counted on that aggression, or that he’ll probably depend on it again, but in this world it’s an asset. 

_“If this goes south,”_ Rick had said to Daryl once during a quiet moment before battle, _“we’ll kill everyone.”_

The ease of his declaration had been a testament to his faith in his partner; a faith that’s never wavered, and never will.

The second posture Daryl adapts when he’s on the verge of violence is defensively aggressive. Shoulders stiff, eyes narrowed and flitting, hands not quite curled into fists but close: this is how Daryl stands when he knows he has to fight even though he doesn’t want to. This one is probably his father’s doing as well, though for wholly different reasons. 

It was the latter of the two that Daryl had fallen into that night, and seeing it had broken Rick’s heart. Something in Daryl’s mind had him so certain that if he didn’t fight, if he didn’t win, then he would die. He hadn’t known what Daryl’s nightmare had been about – what past horror had brought his defenses out in full – but he could guess. 

“No one here’s gonna hurt you, Daryl,” Rick had said quietly, inching closer. Judith’s screaming and the heavy breathing of a room full of people ready to kill had been almost overwhelming, but they’d still all probably heard. Rick hadn’t cared. 

Daryl’s crossbow had been in Glenn’s hands by then, but the hunter had had a gun on his belt, of course, and he’d drawn it in the chaos of the fight. By the time Rick had gotten in front of him, Daryl was holding it loose at his side. Rick had known Daryl wouldn’t hurt him, not even half-insane and lost, but he wasn’t sure about the others. Carol would be safe from his rage, always, and Carl and Judith, too, but everyone else had the potential to be a target. 

“I get it, alright!” Maggie’s shout had cut through Rick’s rising panic. He’d half-turned to look at her. So had everyone else. “She was my sister!” 

Glenn had taken a step closer to her then, but she’d held out a hand loosely. A _not yet_ that Glenn had understood and abided by, the way lovers do. 

“I lost her. We both lost her, Daryl.” She’d been crying by then, but that hadn’t stopped her. With his body still between Daryl and everybody else, Rick had been able to watch both of them. His partner had still looked ready to fight, but it had been more instinct than want. He was hearing her. “We all did. And I don’t know…I don’t know how to keep going.” Glenn had made a pained noise. “But I know I have to.” She’d looked at her husband, an exchange passing between them too quick for Rick to read. “We all have to. And you can’t lose it. Not now. We have to be strong. For a little while longer, we have to… _you_ have to. Okay?”

Rick had wanted to argue with her, just on principal. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, what Daryl had faced already in this world, and if the hunter wanted to break down then he had the right. 

Only he didn’t. He _couldn’t_. Not then. Not there. 

Daryl had stared at her after her speech, watching her, and then Glenn, and then everyone else. Rick had seen it in his posture and expression when he’d finally realized what he’d done; when he’d seen Carol looking at him fearfully, when he’d heard Judith crying, and when he’d noticed that Carl was pointing a gun at Rosita. 

Then he’d looked at Rick, and Rick…Rick had never seen anybody look at him with that much guilt –not Lori when they’d discussed the possibility of the baby not being his, not Shane after he’d tried to kill him – nobody. 

Daryl had looked at him in that moment like he himself had brought about the end of the world, and Rick hadn’t been able to stand it. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl had breathed, entire body sagging. “It is.” 

He’d walked out of the cabin without any fanfare, and Rick had been left to assure the others that nothing like that would happen again. With Carol’s help, and Maggie and Glenn’s, their group had settled down. 

Everyone loses it sometimes. The fact that none of them had ever seen Daryl like that before had thrown them, but eventually they’d let it go. The whole ordeal was never mentioned again. Except by Rick, who’d tried that night, and for the next few, to get Daryl to talk about it. 

“She’s right,” the hunter had said gruffly. “Can’t let it get to me. Not now.” He’d looked at Rick. “Ya gotta stop tryin’ to push it.” Daryl very rarely asks for what he needs, even from Rick, so the older man had latched onto those words. “Can’t talk about it. Not out here. Not ‘til we’re safe.” 

Rick had doubted back then that they’d ever be safe again. He’d known, though, that any chance of them finding a sanctuary would require that Daryl be at his best. Rick had hated the world for its inability to let them grieve, but he’d known his lover was right. 

“Okay.” He’d said one of those nights, pulling Daryl closer to him where they were sitting against a tree. “Just don’t…don’t disappear.” 

“I’ll try.” Daryl had agreed. And in the days that had followed Rick had seen him do it, seen him try. He just hadn’t been wildly successful. Daryl pulls away when he’s upset and hurt. He withdraws from people almost as violently as he fights. It’s a part of who he is that’s built on the foundation of what his father had done to him, who his brother had been, and the life he’d been exposed to. 

Lying in bed with a still feverish but sleeping Daryl had given Rick a chance that he hasn’t had so far to reflect on what’s happened to them, both recently and not so recently, and it had occurred to him, somewhat anticlimactically, that he and Daryl hadn’t ever really talked about things after they’d found Alexandria. 

There had been a moment between them after Daryl had finally taken a shower in their new home, which had then been followed by sex that had felt a lot like the hunter apologizing, but there hadn’t been any actual words. It had seemed like it, at the time; like a whole conversation of truth, secrets, and promises had passed between them (sex with Daryl almost always feels like that), which is probably why Rick hadn’t pressed it anymore after that. 

Sometimes, when Rick thinks about what had happened to Daryl – about what’s happened to his children, to all of them over the years – he can find solace in their current situation, and accept that this is good enough, good for them, and focus on living a life here. On living. 

Other times the past is too strong, and the tidal wave of it grows more powerful with every second that they stay silent about it. It makes Rick nervous, makes him afraid, and that – living in constant fear – isn’t something he thinks he can deal with anymore. 

They might be safe here, at least physically, in Alexandria, but one thing that not even the end of world seems to have been able to change is that dark realities always exist behind the pretty white fences and solid front doors of suburbia.

***  
***

“I just…” Rick begins, because he knows he’s got to be the one, “I just want you to tell me when you’re hurt. And not just ‘cause I ask. And not only when it’s physical.”

The constable is expecting a lot of different reactions: 

_“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”_

_“Ain’t a fucking pussy.”_

_“It’s not your job to baby me.”_

_“I tell you when it’s important.”_

And Rick’s got rebuttals to all of them already worked out, because this is a conversation they’ve had fractured versions of a few times already over the years, and one he’s imagined dozens of times more to boot. 

He knows Daryl better than he’s ever known anyone – including his wife and best friend, even if it had taken an apocalypse to bring out the parts of them that Rick never would have guessed at. And that’s the rub, really. Most people hide who they are, at least bits of what they’re capable of. Sometimes they don’t even know, not for sure, until they’re put in a situation. Rick knows that much is true even of himself. 

But it’s not for Daryl. 

Daryl is the same in this world as he would be in any other, Rick believes that absolutely. And if he’s honest, that’s what scares him, too. 

“Don’t know how.”

They’re not any of the words Rick had been expecting, and as soon as he hears them he tries to get Daryl to meet his gaze, hoping to find an answer in those crystalline depths. But the hunter is resolutely staring at the bedspread. 

“Hey,” Rick ducks his head trying to get his attention. 

Daryl tilts his own head in turn, his silent _I’m paying attention_ , but doesn’t actually look at him. 

And if the world had created one man to perfectly embody the tenants of stoicism…

With a short but determined sigh, Rick rearranges himself until he’s sitting across from Daryl instead of next to him. Not directly across, because sometimes that puts him on edge, but to the side slightly. He places a hand on Daryl’s leg right below the bandage that Madison had managed to wrap with perfect symmetry. 

“What if I explained it?” Rick tries, having discarded all his immediate instinctual reactions to Daryl’s words. 

“Yeah,” Daryl snorts. “I’m so fucked up someone has to teach me how’ta be…is it even normal?”

Rick’s heart aches, but that just strengthens his resolve. “Nothing’s normal anymore.” He shakes his head, using his free hand to trace patterns on Daryl’s bare thigh. Constant contact always seems to help when it comes to things like this. “And I don’t care about what you or anybody else used to call fucked up. That’s something from before. Before all’a this. I just want something that works for us now.” 

“Or what?” Daryl’s picking at the fabric of the comforter, close to but not touching Rick’s hand. His voice is so low that any sound in the room might have muffled it. 

“What are you asking?” Rick responds, because he has an idea, but he has to be sure. 

Daryl doesn’t say anything else, but the set of his jaw speaks volumes. 

“It stays hard.” Rick finally settles on his words, and adds a casual shrug. “If we can’t work this out, then it stays hard. I ask you every time you come back from a run if you’re hurt, just like I did at the prison. I make Aaron tell me the details. We argue when stuff like this happens. I don’t stop loving you.” 

It takes a rapid valley of heartbeats and few seconds of panic, but eventually Daryl reacts to his speech. He lifts his head – finally, finally – and meets Rick’s eyes. It’s indescribable, the depth and volume of emotion he sees there. 

“Growin’ up, there was this kid that lived next door,” Daryl swallows thickly, and glances across the room and then back at Rick. His eyes don’t stay still, but his body does. “’Bout a year younger’an me. One day we were fuckin’ ‘round in the woods. Climbin’ trees, jumpin’ into the lake, shit like that. Dad was off on a bender, hadn’t seen ‘im in days, so I was pretty happy.”

Rick likes picturing Daryl like that – young and carefree enough to have innocent childhood fun with a friend. He can already tell that this story is going somewhere darker, though, so he purposely separates it in his mind, a before and after that allows him to imagine Daryl pure and happy, even if it was a tragically short window of time. 

He squeezes his partner’s leg. “What happened?” 

“Kid fell on some rocks by the quarry. Banged his head somethin’ awful. Blacked out for a few minutes.” Daryl sniffs. “His parents weren’t no different than mine. Knew there wasn’t any point in tellin’ ‘em, y’know? Just went back home ‘an put some ice on it. Knew you had to make the swelling go down. Told’em to sleep it off. That whole don’t sleep with a concussion thing’s a fucking wives’ tell. ‘Least, it never hurt me none.” 

Rick tries not to cringe, but Daryl sees it anyway. It doesn’t make him pull away, though, or stop talking. If anything he looks guilty, like he’s doing something wrong sharing this part of his past with anybody else. He keeps talking, though. Because Rick had asked him to. 

“Was fine for a few days,” Daryl goes on. “Came back outside the next day, caught a fish bigger’an mine with his bare hands. We weren’t but thirteen, fourteen years old. Guttin’ food didn’t feel like a chore.” One impossibly deep breath later and the picture of childhood innocence shatters with a despondently declared, “Kid died a week later. In his bed in the middle’a the night. Doctors said _brain bleed_ and I knew.” 

“Hey,” Rick speaks softly but with determination. “That wasn’t on you.” 

Those words immediately remind Rick of that night with The Claimers – Daryl, too, if his tiny grimace is anything to go by. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” He amends. “You were a kid.” 

“Blamed myself for a while,” Daryl shrugs. “Probably why I rolled with Merle and his friends the next summer. Took shit I always told myself I wouldn’t go near. Fucked around with the guy who…” He doesn’t seem able to finish the thought, but Rick doesn’t need him to. 

“I know.” He whispers. Daryl looks at him gratefully. 

“Got over it, eventually.” He shrugs. “Started blamin’ his parents, instead. And mine. And Merle. And fucking everyone. Was angry for a long time.” 

This time Rick doesn’t say _I know_. He doesn’t want to tell Daryl that he still sees that anger sometimes. Instead he reaches forward, slowly so as not to startle him, and cups his hand around the base of his partner’s neck, letting his fingers play in his hair. Daryl leans into the touch and sighs. 

“Sometimes, when you ask me about it, bein’ hurt or whatever,” he shakes his head minutely but covers Rick’s hand with his own so it doesn’t move, “I think about that kid. ‘Bout how he died, and why. Never wanna do that to you, Rick. Ya gotta know that.” 

“I do. I do know that.” Rick says firmly. “I’ve always known that.” 

“S’just hard,” he mutters, winding down and looking exhausted. “It’s not fair on you. Ain’t stupid, y’know; see how it fucks you up. But I’m a selfish bastard, Rick, and I ain’t lettin’ you go for nothin’.” 

The possessive nature of his voice makes Rick shiver. Even like this, emotionally vulnerable at Rick’s insistence, Daryl can still find a way to make him feel safe, to make him feel _owned_. 

“I’m not stupid, either, Daryl,” Rick declares. “And I see you trying for me. I’ve seen…I’ve seen that book.”

Daryl flinches and tries to pull away. Rick drops his hand from Daryl’s face but rests it on his thigh and holds on tight. The two of them have always been a study in compromise. 

“Read some of it, too,” he goes on before Daryl can think too much. “And it helped me understand some stuff.” 

“Like what?” Daryl challenges. 

“I figured out a long time ago, back the prison, that it isn’t about me and you,” he says, “That you haven’t ever lied to me. Remember that night you came back with all those cuts, and we argued about-”

“I remember.” 

Rick heeds the interruption. “Figured it out then, a little. More later.” He feels like he’s rapidly losing the point, and struggles to get it back. “It’s the way you are, ‘cause of how you grew up. Book put it into words, though. Gave it structure, I guess.”

“Made it simpler?” Daryl suggests, but he doesn’t sound angry anymore, just resigned. “Made it somethin’ you normal folks can put a fence up around. Pen it in.” He laughs dryly. “Hell, it’s just like this place, isn’t it? Walkers ain’t no more real than people dyin’ in wars an’ starvin’ to death in Africa were to these people before the world changed.” 

Rick doesn’t think that outlook is totally fair, but he gets where Daryl is going with it. “Maybe,” He agrees, because Daryl has a point and he has to acknowledge that. “But maybe giving it a name helps. That’s why we call’em _walkers_ , isn’t it? Or biters or geeks or lamebrains or whatever else. Everyone comes up with their own word for them, but it’s always something.”

Daryl looks almost startled. “So you think callin’ it _abuse_ and _trauma_ ’s gonna help me fuckin’ fight it?” 

“Yes.” 

“And then what? Put a bullet in its brain and burn what’s leftover?” He shakes his head, “Ain’t somethin’ that’s gonna get _fixed_ like that.” 

“No, but you take measures,” Rick gestures with his left hand, pointing down firmly like he does when he’s trying to make a point; funny thing is, he can’t remember if that’s always been a habit he’s had or if it’s something he’s picked up from Daryl over the years. “You fight. You talk to me about stuff you don’t like talkin’ about. It’s hard, but you do it anyway because it makes shit better.”

“Damn, Officer, need a soapbox?” But it’s light and delivered with a small, genuine smile. Rick lowers his arm. 

Daryl needs a minute to process everything Rick had just said, to adapt to the thought of changing so much of what he’s used to. Rick gives him that minute and a handful of others, because he loves this man more than anything and would give him a normal world again if he could. 

“How’s it go?” Daryl finally speaks, chewing on the side of his thumb until Rick reaches up and gently tugs it away. “What do I…do?”

Rick’s heart blooms so large that he feels it in his _soul_. “Just talk to me.” He says, not able to hide his smile or the pride in it. “Tell me how you feel right now?”

Daryl bites his bottom lip for a minute, considering. “Tired.” 

“Because of the infection?” Rick asks, and does his best not to look guilty. Maybe this whole thing could have waited until Daryl was back at one hundred percent, but honestly, Rick had been counting on a little leftover weariness from being sick making this easier. Besides, he knows that if Daryl starts thinking that his talking honestly is hurting Rick in any way that he’ll stop doing it. So he schools his expression into curiosity and nothing more. 

“Little,” Daryl nods. “Mostly the…” he waves his hand between them. “This. Wears me out more’an fighting off a horde, y’know? Talkin’ and shit.” 

No, Rick hadn’t known. 

“You’re introverted.” 

Daryl snorts. “Had a guidance counselor call me that once.” 

“Means being around people and talking a lot drains you.” And really, Rick should have put that together a long time ago. He’s just always assumed that Daryl’s tendency to shy away from groups and excessive chitchat had everything to do with his childhood. And that’s a part of it, too, he’s sure, but if he remembers Psych 101 correctly, you’re pretty much born with those personality traits. After all, Merle had had the same upbringing as Daryl, and he’d been the most obnoxiously loud mother fucker in the world. 

“Kinda figured.” Daryl shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. Probably isn’t for him – been that way his whole life – but to Rick it’s like a revelation. He’s already thinking about what he can do with this information. Don’t force Daryl to participate in group conversations or gatherings, maybe act like a buffer when someone he doesn’t really know or doesn’t want to interact with lobbies for his time. Of course, Daryl can take care of himself, and it used to ducking out of situations he doesn’t feel comfortable in, but at least now Rick can watch for it. 

“Calmer, too,” Daryl says, and it takes him a second to realize he’s still answering Rick’s question. 

“Good.” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. Baby steps, Rick supposes. “Also horny.” 

The constable blinks a few times. “Really?” He inquires. “Or are you just trying to get out of this conversation?”

His eyes narrow. “Thought this conversation was done.”

Rick thinks about it. At this point, he’s gotten everything he’s likely to get, at least for now – and it had been a lot. You can’t build a city in a day, and all of that. Eventually he nods at his lover. “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

Daryl looks relived. “Thank fuck.” He licks his lips. “Can I fuck you now?”

Rick considers it even as his cock twitches at the mere suggestion. “Think you can? With your leg?” 

“Ain’t broken.” He huffs. “Didn’t even put in stiches.” 

“Still,” Rick keeps staring at the clean white gauze like it’s a puzzle.

“Fine,” Daryl sounds resolved, and Rick’s eyes snap up to his, afraid for a second that he’s changed his mind. The desire in his gaze and the tent in his boxers assure him that he really, really hasn’t. “Why don’t you get over here’an sit on my dick, then?” He smirks. “I’ll just lie back. You can do all the fucking work, constable.” 

Rick’s breathing quickens at the thought. It’s not something they do too often, mostly because they both get off so hard on Daryl pinning him down and taking control, but it is something they’ve played with before. At this point there probably isn’t a variation of sex that they _haven’t_ tried. 

“See?” He licks his lips and makes zero effort to hide his arousal. “You don’t have any problem telling me what you need when we’re like this.” 

Daryl smirks, letting the comment evaporate into the changed atmosphere of the room, but also absorbing it. It’s intimacy, Rick hopes is his takeaway; and the dynamics of their sexual interactions can bleed into everything else, if he lets them. 

“Yeah,” he nods at Rick’s crotch. “Touch yourself. Through your shorts.” 

Rick had discarded his jeans after making that short run to the kitchen earlier. He follows Daryl’s instruction, and palms his dick firmly through the fabric. He’d gone from half-mast to full-steam-ahead at Daryl’s order. 

He groans loudly at the contact. 

“There anybody downstairs?” Daryl asks, eyes darting briefly to the bedroom door and then almost immediately back to Rick’s hand. 

“Nah,” the constable responds, canting his hips up into his own touch. “Everybody’s out.”

Daryl grins something wicked. “Good.” 

Rick keeps stroking himself through his underwear, whining a little as the quickly dampening fabric pulls over his sensitive tip. 

“Stop,” Daryl says eventually, but Rick’s a little lost in the pleasure, and can’t bring himself to obey right away. 

Daryl leans forward and pinches the inside of his thigh. 

“Hey,” Rick protests, but reluctantly moves his hand as instructed, shivering as air hits the wet spot. 

“C’mere,” he says instead, beckoning Rick as he lies back against the bed, head slightly propped up against pillows and the headboard. 

Rick straddles him in a single move, careful not to bump the bandaged section of his leg, but other than that diving right in. Almost immediately their hips slot together, like they were meant to. Daryl moans at the friction of their dicks pressed together, even through the two layers of fabric. 

Rick rocks forward, and even though Daryl had claimed he was going to do nothing but sit back and enjoy, he quickly gets a hold on Rick – one hand on his hip, the other pulling at his ass – and starts directing the steady grind. 

Sometimes Daryl gets off on this: the slow build of sexual pleasure. At the beginning of their relationship everything had always felt rushed, like no matter how much Daryl _liked_ it, he also couldn’t wait to be done with it. And maybe some of that was living in a world where a moment of distraction can literally kill you, but Rick always though it was more than that, too. 

As they’d continued, though, Daryl had opened up, started exploring things at a steadier pace. And one thing Rick had noticed almost immediately is that – sometimes, at least – Daryl gets off on the anticipation. Making out for hours until they’re both panting and painfully hard in their pants, a day full of touches that just cross the line between innocent and teasing and cumulating in a night of multiple orgasms, a grinding of body parts when hands and fingers would probably work more efficiently. 

Daryl had never gotten what most other people had when it comes to love – tentative first touches all about exploring and learning. And while it breaks Rick’s heart that he hadn’t ever gotten that, he also loves that he’s the one Daryl gets to explore with now. 

_“You’re the first person I’ve ever been with more’an once or twice,”_ he’d admitted once, slightly tipsy on some whiskey Glenn had brought back from a run. _“S’different.”_

Different, in this context, is fucking beautiful. 

After endless minutes of mindless rutting, Rick’s mind a fabulous mess of _Daryl, want, and more_ , the hunter pulls back slightly and reaches for the bedside table. 

_”Gotta give these guys props for this, I guess,”_ Daryl had said with a small smirk the first time he’d opened the drawer next to their bed and found lube there. 

Their first night together in Alexandria – not the first night they’d stayed there, but the first night Daryl had slept in a bed with him instead of on the front porch or on the floor in the living room near Judith’s crib – 

Daryl had pulled out that conveniently acquired little bottle and asked Rick to fuck him. 

The former deputy had been reluctant to do it at the time, because he’d been so sure that Daryl had wanted it for all the wrong reasons, but gentle touches and quiet promises had assured him. Sliding into Daryl that night – slow and steady, because that’s the only way he’d do it with his partner’s emotions frayed like a stripped power cord – had felt like coming home. 

Daryl pressing the bottle into his hand now pulls him out of his memories, and for one second he’s confused by it. Then Daryl says, “Wanna? Or ya want me to?” And Rick grins wildly. God, he loves sex. So much so that the gender of his partner has never mattered too much to him. Of course being “straight” in Georgia is easier – part of the reason he’d married Lori way back when, if he’s being honest with himself – but Rick had explored before that. He’d known enough of his own desires that he hadn’t been surprised the first time he’d glanced across the fire at Daryl and wondered what the other man might look like naked. 

“You do it,” Rick decides, popping open the cap and drizzling some lube on Daryl’s fingers for him. “You hate not being able to watch _or_ touch.”

“True,” Daryl grins wolfishly. “Get up’an get the rest’a your clothes off, first.” 

Rick scrambles to comply, bouncing off the bed and shedding his shirt and underwear. While he’s up, he works Daryl’s boxers carefully past his injury and then down and off altogether. “Shirt, too?” He offers. 

Daryl considers it for a moment and then shakes his head. “S’alright.” 

Rick nods easily and gets back into place. Sometimes Daryl likes to keep his shirt on during sex, especially when he’s feeling insecure about something. Considering how exposed their conversation had left him, Rick really isn’t surprised. 

He scoots up a little higher this time so that Daryl can have better access to his ass. By the time his fingers slip-slide down his crack, the lube is warm, and Rick shivers pleasantly. “Fuck, that’s nice,” he shares. 

“Yeah?” Daryl says, but it’s not really a question. One of his fingers prods at Rick’s hole, and the constable presses down into it after a few moments of teasing. He hisses at the intrusion, and Daryl uses his free hand to tug sharply at Rick’s hair. “Easy, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah,” Rick assures, rolling his hips. He’s got both hands on his thighs, not wanting to touch himself yet. “Feels good.” 

Daryl grunts but says nothing. After a few minutes he presses a second finger inside of him, licking his lips at the way Rick’s own mouth falls open a little as he fucks himself into Daryl’s movements. The hunter begins scissoring his fingers, loosening Rick up. 

“Two or three?” He asks gruffly, using his other hand now to run flat and heavy up and down Rick’s side, over his chest, across his nipples, and anywhere else he can reach. 

Rick closes his eyes and basks in the feel of Daryl all around him. “Hmm, two,” he finally decides. 

Daryl nods, and spends a few more minutes opening him up, until finally the anticipation is too much and he pulls away. “You ready?” 

“Yeah,” Rick nods rapidly, meeting his partner’s eyes as they work together to achieve their goal. Daryl holds his dick steady with one hand and guides Rick with the other, while the constable balances his weight on his knees until a gentle pressure on his hip tells him to shift accordingly. 

Daryl stretches him as he enters; it’s been over a week since they’ve done this, and Rick had been missing it. He sighs as Daryl fills him, an unrelenting pressure that doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in.  
Rick doesn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until Daryl’s knuckles are brushing lightly over the day-old stubble on his chin. The older man blinks blearily down at him, flexing the muscles in his ass and smirking when Daryl groans. 

“Ready?” Rick asks, smiling because that’s usually Daryl’s question. 

“Do your best, sweetheart.” The hunter winks. 

Rick balances all his weight on his knees again, carefully lifting himself up until just the tip of Daryl’s cock is inside of him, then slowly he lowers himself back down. Daryl hisses through his teeth, not trying to take control yet because he knows that this is just Rick getting used to him. 

It takes the constable a half dozen more painfully precise motions before Daryl gets annoyed and thrusts up hard. Rick moans loudly and clutches at Daryl’s shoulder. Then the younger man cants his hips just so, pulls back almost all the way, and then thrusts up again at just the right angle to nail Rick’s prostrate. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “Shit fuck dammit, _Daryl_.” 

After that they find their rhythm; Daryl holding tight to Rick’s hips, positioning him perfectly, and thrusting at an ever-increasing speed, and Rick matches him pace for pace, slamming down in time with the tempo he sets and making sure to tighten around Daryl’s dick every few thrusts. 

When Rick feels himself getting close he reaches for his cock, only to have Daryl – who’d apparently been waiting for just this moment – stop him. Rick whimpers, using his eyes to silently plead with the younger man. 

Daryl shifts up slightly, so the bulk of the continued thrusting is up to Rick and Daryl’s close enough to use one of his hands to circle around Rick’s wrists and pin them to the small of his back. Rick’s hips jerk wildly once he’s captured in Daryl’s hold, and it’s definitely not because he’s trying to get away. Daryl’s other hand is stuck out behind him, balancing his weight, so he stares at Rick’s cock without touching. 

“Think I’an get ya to come like this?” Daryl pants, shifting his lower half to help Rick find just the right angle again. 

“Know I can’t,” Rick whimpers, fucking himself harder and harder on Daryl’s dick, even though it’s really only making things worse. But the best kind of worse. “Please,” he gasps when a particularly brutal strike makes his toes curl. “Please, Daryl, _please_.”

Daryl shifts so he can get his other hand free, using it to play with the head of Rick’s cock. The constable makes a high-pitched noise that he’ll deny later. He wishes more than anything else in the world right now that he was one of those people who could come untouched. Lucky fucking bastards, the lot of them. He’s never been able to, always needed some sort of stimulation. And if there was one person who was ever going to prove his biological makeup wrong, it would be Daryl Dixon. So if it hasn’t happened yet, chances are it never will. 

But Daryl really, really, really likes to try. 

“C’mon,” he bucks wildly, losing their rhythm. 

“Alright, alright,” Daryl finally concedes, loosening his grip on Rick’s hands. A half second later they’ve both got fingers wrapped around Rick’s cock, and the combination of multiple pressure points and Daryl’s strength have Rick spilling all over himself less than two minutes later. 

Daryl uses his lax state to manipulate his body, fucking up into him a handful more time before he, too, is coming with a deep groan. 

As he’s riding out the last sputters of his orgasm, Rick lowers his body until he’s lying across Daryl’s chest. He kisses him a few times there over the shirt, and then places a few more on the bare part of his bicep when the archer’s arm circles his back. 

“Cold?” Daryl asks softly after some time has passed, his fingers playing in Rick’s hair. 

“No,” Rick breathes. The air around them is humid and smells like sex. He loves it. “Stay like this for a while?” 

“I might fall asleep,” Daryl warns, following it up with a perfectly times yawn. 

“S’okay,” Rick mutters. He’s dazed and content himself, but not really sleepy, despite having stayed up most of the night watching Daryl. The shift that had taken place today between them had invigorated the constable, made him swell with hope and love and pride. He wonders if Daryl can feel it, too – the expanse of this chasm that they had crossed. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time for the next antibiotic. Madison wants to come by later to take a look at the cut.” 

Daryl hums, his fingers steadily slowing their motions. 

“Told Carol she could come by, too,” Rick adds, knowing that Daryl really isn’t comprehending him anymore, but also that he likes falling asleep to the sound of Rick’s voice. “And Aaron said something about needing to collect on a bet. You’re gonna have to fill me in on that one, later.” 

Half-asleep and totally still by now, Daryl grunts. 

Rick just smiles and settles his body even closer against his partner’s. “Love you, y’know?” 

“Always,” Daryl breathes. He’s fast asleep less than a minute later. 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so we're officially at the point where I know this is the second to last chapter. _And_ I've already started on the actual last chapter - which is feeling more like an epilogue than anything else so far. But, either way, that will be up in a dew days. In the meantime, I love hearing what you thought!!


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the last chapter. Enjoy!

***  
 _Wait for me to come home._   
***

***

About three weeks later Rick comes home early from one of his patrols. There hadn’t been anything major happening (was there ever?), and Michonne had felt like being alone for a while. Respecting her request had been easy because sometimes she reminds him so startlingly of Daryl that he can’t help but give her anything. Sometimes he thinks she knows that and plays it to her advantage. In this instance he can’t be mad, though, because her want for solitude allows Rick the opportunity to spend some quality time with his family – including Daryl himself, who’d just gotten home from his first post-infection scout two days before.

_”How’d it go?” Rick asks, watching Daryl as he strips out of his muddy clothing._

_“Didn’t see anyone worth recruitin’.” The hunter shrugs. “Found a couple bottle of pain pills, though, for Madison.”_

_“Thought all the pharmacies and hospitals around here were cleaned out?”_

_“There’s a shopping center, few miles out,” the hunter explains. “Shelves been wiped clean, but no one ever thought to go through people’s lockers. Found pills, cigarettes, some pornos, and half a baggie of coke.”_

_“You’re kidding.” Rick gapes._

_“Nope.” Daryl shakes his head. He pauses then, still facing the wall. After a while he adds, “Thought to look there ‘cause’a Merle.” A deep breath and Daryl starts moving again, kicking off his shoes and still not looking at him. “He used to raid places like that when he needed a fix fast. Retail breeds addictions, s’what he used to say.” Daryl huffs. “Seemed impossible, but every time we’d go, he’d find somethin’.”_

_He realizes immediately what Daryl is doing. Rick had told him that sharing was about more than physical hurts, and the hunter had taken that to heart. Rick feels impossibly grateful for his partner’s strength._

_Rick steps forward and places a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. He stops moving again, but doesn’t turn around. “It wasn’t always all bad, with you and him, was it?”_

_Daryl lets out a deep breath, and Rick swears it sounds relieved. “He used to make me run drugs for him. When I was young enough to not get in trouble for it if I ever got caught. Little fucked up, I know that, but…” he finally turns around then, facing Rick fully. “But once, this other guy, one of his friends or whatever, tried to send me out. Merle found out about it and beat that guy so bad he was in the hospital for three months.”_

_Most older siblings just sucker punch bullies, Rick thinks, but Daryl’s world had been very different, and he gets what he’s trying to tell him about it, even around the horrific context. “He looked out for you.”_

_“Sometimes.” Daryl shrugs._

_He doesn’t say anything more after that, but Rick doesn’t need him to. He knows why Daryl’s in a funky mood for the rest of the night, why Carol’s bantering doesn’t get her as far as it normally would, and why Judith stays sitting on Daryl’s lap all throughout dinner. And knowing that, understanding Daryl on that level?_

_That’s everything._

Rick sheds the top half of his cop uniform, gun holster and all, as soon as he gets home. No one’s in the kitchen or living room when he looks there, and after a brief debate he decides to check upstairs before wandering elsewhere in town. 

Quiet voices reach him right outside his son’s room, and he stops to listen. Carl spends a lot of time unsupervised these days, and while Rick trusts his son completely when it comes to weapons and vigilance, being a teenager in a community like this is a whole other thing. 

When he hears Daryl’s voice on the other side of the door he relaxes. He’s about to step forward and make himself known when Carl’s words make him pause again. 

“Shouldn’t this be something I talk about with my dad?” And he sounds so furious. Not yelling and throwing a tantrum like a kid furious, but genuinely enraged. 

It takes every shred of his willpower to not step around the corner and intervene. Whatever this is, Daryl had started it, and Rick trusts his partner enough to consider him a second parent to Judith (though he’d never risk saying that so baldly to Daryl, for fear of scaring him), but by the same logic he should also trust him with Carl. 

“Yeah, it is.” Daryl agrees, sounding calmer than Rick’s ever heard him. “But you haven’t.” 

“Well maybe I don’t wanna talk about it at all.” His son bites, and Rick has a pretty good idea, now, of what they’re talking about, and it makes his stomach drop. 

He’s been meaning to initiate this confrontation for weeks now – longer, even – but he’d kept putting it off like a fucking coward. He’s angry at himself for having waited long enough that Daryl had felt the need to step in, and also a little angry at Daryl himself, for not warning him that this was going to happen. 

“That’d be fine if you were dealin’ with it alright on your own,” Daryl acknowledges in the other room, “But what happened down there sure as hell didn’t look like you had a handle on anything.” 

Rick reconsiders his anger, because obviously this hadn’t been something that Daryl had just _decided_ to do. Something had triggered the need for this conversation. Triggered an immediate need, at that, if Daryl had chosen staying with Carl here as opposed to coming and finding Rick. 

Fear starts clawing its way into his gut as soon as he realizes that. 

“Look, it wasn’t a big deal.” Carl sounds frustrated now, and Rick can picture him running his hands through his hair. “It just…I didn’t even…It doesn’t matter. Why do you even care?” 

“That’s a dumb question.” Daryl says evenly. 

“Just ‘cause you and my dad are…whatever, that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta-”

“Ain’t about that, kid,” the hunter cuts him off. “Gonna hafta try a lot harder than that.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Carl snarls after a few quiet moments. “You couldn’t _possibly_ understand.” 

“Wanna bet?” His tone is calm rather than challenging, but hearing the words still shock Rick. 

It had crossed his mind, of course, that Daryl might be the best person to have this conversation with Carl, but he’d never planned on actually asking him to do it. He’d had a vague idea of how it would go – he’d tell Daryl, when he was ready, what he was planning to talk to his son about, and if his partner wanted to be involved Rick would have welcomed the help. He never would have actually _asked_ , though; because deep down he knows that Daryl would do anything for him, and he’d never want to force something like that on him. 

But Daryl had taken it on himself without any prompting – save whatever had happened that had brought about this conversation in the first place.

_Partners_ is what they call each other, because it works on every level for them, and Carl had been the only half-dangling thread in the fabric of their relationship for a long time now; because Daryl still sees him as Lori’s son in a way he doesn’t – can’t – with Judith. And Rick has always understood that, from Carl and Daryl’s points of view both, and has never felt comfortable pushing it. 

Carl looks up to Daryl, tries to emulate him, loves him as a part of their family the same way he loves Carol and Maggie and Glenn, but it’s never been more than that. Listening to it happening right now, knowing that this is the moment where everything changes, Rick realizes that this shift was always going to have to come from Daryl and Carl. Rick was never meant to be a part of it. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carl responds eventually, sounding halfway between angry and anxious. “Because you were there, or something? You almost died trying to save us, I know that, but it’s not the same as knowing what I…You weren’t…It’s not the same.” 

“Nah, nothin’ ever is.” Daryl sighs, and Rick hears a creak that sounds like he might have sat on the bed. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that night. I’m talkin’ ‘bout a time when I was a kid, ‘round your age, when some junky buddy of Merle’s tried to rape me.” 

It’s the first time Rick’s ever heard him use the word _rape_. As far as he knows, this is the first time anyone’s used that word in reference to what had happened that night with them and Joe’s men. He has to lean against the wall, because hearing it makes him dizzy.

“Did-did you…” Carl sounds timid now, and Rick can’t blame him. This is a whole other level for them. 

“He didn’t do it. Got close.” Daryl says factually. God, how is he having this conversation so serenely? It’s so different from what Rick’s used to, and he has to wonder if it’s only because he’s talking to Carl and knows he has to be in control of the situation, or if something about their relationship has changed how his partner handles things like this. “And I didn’t kill ‘im, if that’s what you wanted to know. Merle woulda, if I’d told him about it. Never did, though.”

“How come?” Carl asks quietly. 

“More about me than him.” Rick imagines Daryl shrugging. “Had seen enough people die. Didn’t live in this world yet. Wasn’t used to it.” 

“I’m glad my dad killed the guy who almost…you know, with me.” 

Those words make Rick feel a lot of things, and as much as he hates it, one of them is pride. 

“Me, too.” Daryl agrees. 

There’s a rustling sound, Carl readjusting his chair, and then a muttered comment that, try as he might, Rick can’t make out. 

Daryl responds to it, however, with a resolved, “Damn straight.” 

After a full minute and a half of silence – Rick watches the clock in the hallway tick seconds away, debating with every one whether he should insert himself into this situation or let it play out without him – he hears his son say something too softly for him to hear, again. 

But it must have been too soft for Daryl, too, because a second later the hunter says, “What?”

“What was his name?” Carl asks, louder this time, and rushed. “The guy who almost…the guy who almost…almost…raped me?” He gets it out through clenched teeth, and Rick’s heart breaks and swells at the same time. “I just need to know his name. I have to.” 

“It w-”

“No, wait,” Carl interrupts, sounding panicked. “You first. What was the name of the guy who almost hurt you?” 

“Couldn’t tell ya,” Daryl says. 

“Yes you can,” and Carl sounds very sure about it. “You can’t forget something like that. You just _can’t_.” 

“Probably not,” Daryl agrees. “But I never knew it. Didn’t want to, before, and after…by the time it was important there wasn’t no one to ask. Merle thought it mighta been Craig, but he was so doped up that summer he mighta thought that was my name, too. I remember it bein’ something country-stupid.” 

_“This one guy, Buck or Doug or Leboy, somethin’ stupid like that,”_

“So you’ll never know?” Carl asks. 

“Nope.” 

“Does that…does it matter?” His son asks this with genuine interest, and like he now views Daryl as an authority on this topic. 

“It used to,” he responds simply. “It was the right thing for ya’ta ask. Knowin’ that asshole’s name, think it’s gonna be good for you. Write it down and stick it to a target, put as many holes in it as ya can.” 

Rick recognizes the suggestion as an adapted version of something that had been in the Surviving Abuse book. 

“That would help?” Carl asks. 

“Hell if I know what’s gonna work for you,” Daryl says, sounding honest despite the rough words. “Keep tryin’ stuff ‘til you find somethin’ that does. Me? I took up the crossbow.” 

“Really?” 

That Rick had known. He also knows that Daryl had stolen his first crossbow, and many other things, during that time in his life. Thankfully, he chooses not to share that with his son. 

“Yeah.” Daryl says simply. “Already knew how’ta shoot. The bow, though…it was different. It…helped.” 

“Do you think maybe you could teach me?” Carl asks, and it’s a little hesitant, but mostly hopeful. “You never did, back at the farm.” 

Daryl chuckles a little, remembering something that Rick can’t because he hadn’t been there. It makes him glad; finding out that Carl and Daryl had had moments together long before he and Rick had been anything more than brothers in arms. 

There’s a pause, but it’s not nearly as long as Rick might have expected. “I could do that.” His partner agrees, clearing his throat and making the bed creak again as he shifts his weight. “Your dad says it’s alright, then yeah, I could do that.” 

“Thanks,” Carl says quietly, and another minute creeps by before his son speaks again. When he does it’s with a changed tone, one that makes him sound like the man he almost is. “You know, when you and my dad got together, I didn’t really think it was weird.” 

“Oh yeah?” Daryl sounds curious. 

“Not really.” Carl continues, and Rick recognizes then that the level quality of his voice is the same as what Daryl’s been using this whole time. “When I was younger, before the walkers came, and even after, at the farm…I just kinda always thought that my dad and, and Shane were, y’know, a thing, too.” 

It takes a lot for Rick to not respond to those words. 

Daryl makes a little noise that Rick might have been able to identify, if he was able to see his face. “Huh.”

“And I don’t know if they ever were,” he trails off like he’s waiting for something, maybe for Daryl to tell him, one way or another. But when the archer is silent, Carl continues, “I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s just what I thought. Like, I wouldn’t have been surprised to walk into a room and see him kissing Shane instead of mom. It would have been normal.” 

An old memory assaults Rick – something he hasn’t thought about it years. It nearly knocks him over, the revelation of what a huge impact such a small thing had apparently had on his son. 

“Ain’t much about this world’s normal anymore.” Daryl points out. 

Carl snorts. “Nah, I guess not. That’s part of it, too. Why you and my dad make sense.”

Daryl sighs deeply. “We almost done with the heart’ta heart about me’an your daddy?” 

Carl laughs, and Rick doesn’t bother biting back his own grin. “Sorry, I know you don’t like to talk much.” Thing is, he doesn’t sound very sorry. 

“Ain’t so bad,” Daryl admits, “just me’an you.”

“Cool.” Carl decides. “So, about the crossbow and stuff…”

“Tomorrow.” Daryl says firmly. “And you gotta ask your dad first.” 

“I will.” He agrees. “I’ll apologize to Enid, too.” 

Rick’s really going to have to ask Daryl what had happened today. 

“Yeah, you do that.” It sounds like the end of the conversation, but Daryl’s hedging. Rick recognizes it in his voice. Eventually he sighs and says bluntly, “I never told you his name.” 

It’s not really possible, but Rick swears he can _hear_ his son go still. 

“I want to know.” Carl says slowly, hesitantly. “I asked you.” 

“Okay.” Daryl agrees, but makes no effort to share. 

“But maybe…maybe tomorrow, instead?” 

“Yeah, kid,” his partner says, all the understanding in the world laid out in the simplest terms imaginable. “That’s okay, too.”

***

Daryl doesn’t look surprised when he exits Carl’s bedroom and sees Rick hovering, half-poised to flee before he’s found out, in the hallway. For a second Rick feels panicked – like a kid caught doing something against the rules. Once that passes he’s able to fully digest Daryl’s knowing eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the archer signals him with well-practiced hand gestures to stay silent. Carl’s still within earshot on the other side of the door, and Rick feels stupid then. 

Silently, he follows Daryl down the hallway to their bedroom, making sure to keep their steps in tune so Carl doesn’t hear two bodies moving. 

Once Daryl closes the door behind them, he knows they’re safe to talk freely – the walls in this house are thick enough to muffle everything but screams. 

“Coulda jumped in there at some point,” Daryl starts before Rick has the chance, turning towards him with crossed arms and a glare that’s only half-serious. 

“Thought you handled it pretty well,” he smiles, genuinely and thankfully. “Shoulda known you heard me.” 

“’Course I did, Rick,” he says, and already that perfectly composed tone is filtering out in favor of the gruffness that Rick’s so used to. It makes him feel calmer. “Always hear you comin’. You’d think, many times as I’ve tried to teach you to hunt, you’d at least learn to avoid the creaky stairs ‘round here.”

Rick chuckles lightly, until something occurs to him. “Did Carl know I was listening?” 

“Nah,” Daryl shakes his head and looks sure enough that Rick believes him. “Kid was too caught up in his own shit.” 

“Yeah,” Rick licks his lips, and then can’t hold back anymore. “What happened to prompt that conversation, Daryl?” 

“Maybe your kid oughta tell you about that,” he suggests, sighing heavily and uncrossing his arms long enough to run his hands through his hair. “Kinda a private thing.” 

“I get that,” Rick agrees, taking a step closer. “But this is something I need to know.” He ducks his head until Daryl meets his gaze. “You’re not breaking his trust. Not with this.” 

After a few more moments of internal debate, Daryl offers him a clipped and probably abridged version of what gone on earlier in the day: Daryl had come back to the house and seen Carl and Enid sitting on the couch together, close enough to mean something. He’d watched through the window as the young girl had leaned forward and kissed Carl. 

“Wanted to leave then,” Daryl shares. “But I had a feeling it was about to go to shit.” 

And it had. According to his partner, Carl had been fine for a moment, but Enid had touched him – just his shoulder, something innocent – but Carl had flipped out. Pushed her away and started screaming. 

“He wasn’t gonna shoot her or nothin’,” Daryl shares, and Rick’s relieved by that, at least. “But he was scared. Came in and made her leave. Your kid tried to run off, but I kinda cornered him.” 

Rick lets out a shaky breath. “I shoulda known something like this was gonna happen. I’ve been meaning…” his eyes flick to Daryl’s briefly, “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about it for a while now. Just…every time I went to, he seemed alright. Calm, happy sometimes. Couldn’t break that.” 

Daryl moves closer, until they’re almost touching, and stares until Rick meets his gaze. “Don’t feel guilty about that, Rick.” He says firmly. 

“He’s broken ‘cause of me,” Rick mutters, dropping his gaze again. 

Daryl’s hand is on his chin almost immediately, rough enough to surprise the older man. He locks their eyes again, only this time Rick’s are narrowed, almost defiant. 

Daryl’s are clam and sure and so goddamn fierce that Rick settles down a little without even meaning to. 

“He ain’t broken,” the archer bites, and it surprises Rick a little that that’s where he’d started, what he thinks is most important. “And what’s happenin’ with him now? It sure as fuck ain’t your fault.” 

“But-”

“Hey,” Daryl interrupts him harshly, “Is it _my_ fault?”

“What? No.” Rick responds without thinking, thrown by the question. 

“Why the fuck not? I ran with those guys. I stayed with ‘em.” He swallows thickly. “I know that asshole’s name ‘cause for a second I was one of them. That make what happened to your kid my fault?” 

“We’ve been through this, Daryl,” Rick bites angrily, jerking his face out of his partner’s grasp but leaning in close enough to share air, almost like a threat. “None of what happened that night is on you.”

“Then how the fuck can it be on _you_?” 

Rick realizes belatedly what he’d just done. He should be proud, really, that Daryl has worked through his previous guilt so well that not only does he not feel it anymore, but he can now also use the memory of it to prove a point. And he is proud. Or he will be, later. 

Right now, he just wants to feel guilty. “He’s my son. I should have had a goddamn conversation with him.” 

Daryl snorts like Rick’s saying something dumb. “Nobody was gonna talk to him ‘bout that ‘til he was damn ready to get talked to. I just happened to be here when it happened.” 

“I’m glad you were,” Rick admits, calming down some more. His own guilt is less important than Carl’s wellbeing. “Shit.” 

He takes a step back and scrubs his hands over his face. When he looks up again his eyes are bleary, but he’s pretty sure Daryl’s staring at him with an expression bordering on patient. 

Rick laughs then, just once. Then again after a beat, louder. 

“What?” Daryl asks, eyebrow quirked up. 

“I can’t believe he thinks Shane and I were a thing.” 

Daryl cocks his head to the side and makes a face. 

“No,” Rick says slowly, blinking a few times to clear his vision. “You thought that, too?”

“Figured you woulda told me by now,” he shrugs. “But back before all’a this? Yeah, it crossed my mind.” 

The older man huffs and shakes his head. “Never happened.” He assures. Daryl nods easily, because he had that figured out already. “Carl did see me kiss a guy once, though.”

“Come again, sweetheart?” Daryl looks openly curious now. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, just like he had earlier in Carl’s room, and waits for Rick to explain. 

“One of the guys I messed around with at the academy,” Rick starts the story. Daryl nods, because he’s heard all about Rick’s sexual experimentation pre-marriage. “He was in town for something or another, and he came by one night. Lori was at her parents’, at the time, so it was just me’an Carl. Alex, guy’s name was Alex, he hung around that night. We drank, talked, normal shit. Wasn’t aiming for anything to happen.” 

“Shame you’re so irresistible,” Daryl smirks. 

Rick glares half-heartedly. “He kissed me. I mighta kissed him back, for a few seconds, but I didn’t let it get farther than that. I never cheated on Lori, not even when we were at our worst.”

“I know that, Rick,” Daryl says softly. “You’re a good man.” 

Inexplicably relieved, considering how many years ago this whole thing had happened, he continues, “Carl wasn’t more than three years old. Thought he was in bed, but I turned around right after I caught my breath and there he was, staring at me.” 

“He don’t remember that.” 

“Part of him must remember something about it,” Rick argues. “He never blinked twice at thinking me’an Shane were a thing, or when me and you became an actual thing. Think it got in his head, that night, that it’s something normal for me.” 

“Good.” Daryl responds after considering it for a few seconds. 

“Good?” 

“You imagine how hard it woulda been on him, the two of us, if he wasn’t okay with somethin’ like that?” 

Rick opens his mouth to argue, but promptly closes it. “You’re…probably not wrong.” He says finally. 

“First time for everything,” Daryl huffs, and then gestures for Rick to come closer. The constable does, taking his place at Daryl’s side and leaning into him just a touch too heavily. 

Daryl wraps an arm around his back, fingers splaying out on his hip, and pulls him closer yet. Rick relaxes into the touch, and after a few minutes of sitting there, quiet and still together, Rick feels at ease, almost rejuvenated. Daryl’s presence, his touch, is more than enough to keep him stable. 

“You think he’s gonna be alright?” Rick asks eventually, muttering the question into the younger man’s shoulder. 

“’Course he is.” 

“Yeah?” Rick presses, sounding hopeful despite not meaning to. “’Cause I’m worried.” 

“I know,” Daryl whispers, so soft that Rick almost doesn’t hear it. Then, louder, “You’ll help him.”

“We’ll help him,” Rick lifts his head, making sure that Daryl gets that this part is important, too. 

But his partner just nods back resolutely, dispelling all of Rick’s concerns in a single heartbeat. “We’ll help him.” He repeats. “He’ll find his way back.” 

Rick nods and ducks his head again, resting against Daryl; twining their bodies together until all of their limbs and fingers and thoughts are indistinguishable from one another. 

“He’ll find his way back,” the constable echoes quietly, taking solace in the words as much as Daryl’s determination. “Just like you did.” 

“Nah,” his partner breathes, kissing his temple softly and then letting his lips linger there, like a promise. “Just like we did.” 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *curtain closes* 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I hope the end of this little sage didn't disappoint; and, of course, feel free to drop me a line, one last time, and let me know your final thoughts. Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Your thoughts, as always, are most welcome and exceptionally appreciated. 
> 
> And, yes, quotes and story title taken from Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph” (which might have been the title of this story, actually, if “Photograph” wasn’t forever and always a Nickleback song and nothing else in my head).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Only Words Bleed - Edit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13545252) by [PixieReedus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixieReedus/pseuds/PixieReedus), [Rickyl_edits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rickyl_edits/pseuds/Rickyl_edits), [YeyaGrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeyaGrimes/pseuds/YeyaGrimes)




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